


In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell

by TheOldAquarian



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), AU where everything is the same except Gabriel and Beelzebub got really into management training, Cursed (TM) powerpoint presentations, Ensemble Cast, Excessive Drinking, Footnotes, Heaven and Hell as soulless corporations, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Illustrations, M/M, Podfic Available, Rated M for marketing jokes, References to Drugs, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Smoking, also a flashback to God's Pre-Fall collection, artistic license in herpetology, except they do by definition contain a lot of souls, in this house we love and respect Eric the Disposable Demon, no explicit sex just a LOT of sexual humor and a gratuitous shower scene, obligatory Rome flashback, they're friends with benefits in love and in various stages of denial about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOldAquarian/pseuds/TheOldAquarian
Summary: Every 300 years, Heaven and Hell share a company retreat on Earth during which angels and demons temporarily surrender their celestial powers.Officially, it’s a time for fostering team unity and better understanding the needs of the client base. It’s definitelynota time for terrorizing the hotel staff with divine/diabolical showdowns, abusing the ethereal expense account, or furiously snogging your hereditary enemy. But when Aziraphale and Crowley are up for promotion, Hell breaks loose and Heaven might just break free.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 555
Kudos: 874
Collections: BL favorites, Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Smoky Quartz Gets In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my entry in the Good Omens Big Bang! A million thanks for the wonderful artwork by snailcities and Pollitt, it's been nothing but lovely to work with them and their pieces brought me so much joy.
> 
> HUGE thanks to miss-minnelli and Dee for their incredible beta work; they have been invaluable sounding boards, nitpickers, and wordsmithers, and have encouraged more creative and correct choices at every turn. You have my most profound and infinite gratitude!
> 
> Check out the wonderful multivoice podfic version!!

_ Prologue _

It was a beautiful night in Rome and even the stars seemed to be celebrating. The great empire had not yet fallen, but it was beginning to stumble, and there were signs of a not-too-distant lurch.

These political niceties were lost on the large crowd of angels who had converged on a corner restaurant for the first ever business meal expensed to Heaven’s accounting department. Humanity would not invent the corporate retreat for another two millennia, but Archangelic leadership had always valued forward-thinking entrpreneurial acumen. It was thought that some experience with the rustic charms of physical existence would be beneficial for company morale. To enhance the experience, the heavenly hosts had temporarily signed away their angelic powers like executives locking their cell phones away for a weekend of silent meditation.

It did not take too long before regret ensued.

Still, it was some consolation that the Dukes and Marquesses and What-Have-Yous of Hell were suffering a similar indignity in the eating establishment across the way.

***

Gabriel pushed aside a curtain and ushered his fellow Archangels to a table. Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon followed suit, wavering more than was usual. Humans, it turned out, were much better at fermentation than water purification. Sandalphon turned over the clay cups on the table and reached for another jug of wine as Gabriel held up a hand.

“Whoa there, Sandalphon, don’t you think we’ve had enough of that?” His eyes were as purple as the robes of the richest patrons at the far tables. 

“Right, sorry,” Sandalphon said. He fancied himself charmingly roguish, for an angel, but he always behaved with the exact amount of irreverence Gabriel was willing to tolerate at the current time. “Maybe we could get some food, at least? Heard it soaks up the wine.”

“Brilliant!” Gabriel exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table a little harder than necessary. “That’s the Sandman, always coming up with the best ideas.”

Michael, who had suggested going to the restaurant in the first place, exchanged an exasperated look with Uriel.

Their server brought over a dish of rabbit accompanied by what Uriel bravely determined were pickled beets. The four Archangels picked at the food, then began to eat in earnest, hardly finding time to discuss the next day’s workshop (“Be Not Afraid: Best Practices in Manifestation”).

“Ooh, did you try the beet preserves? A touch too much garlic, I think, but otherwise they’re positively  _ scrumptious _ .”

Gabriel looked up to see Aziraphale standing before him. His hair was curling from the humidity and his beaming face was red in the dim candlelight.

“Aziraphale, I forgot that you’re very much our  _ connoisseur[1] _ of earth’s delights,” Gabriel said, in the same kind of tone that people would later use to exclaim about the  _ quaintness  _ of houses smaller than their own.

“Oh, I’m not all that familiar with the local culture, really,” Aziraphale disclaimed, missing the sarcasm, or perhaps charitably misinterpreting it. “I’ve only been here a few months, and really--”

“Most of us have only spent a few months on Earth in all the time since Creation,” Michael cut in. “Cumulatively.” 

“Well, that’s why we’re here now, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, smiling. “To better empathize with all the lovely people who are living on Earth, spending their precious time weaving cotton and charting stars and fermenting grapes.”

“Speaking of fermented grapes, have you seen Ithuriel?” Gabriel asked. “He polished off a jug of the stuff and went wandering.”

Ithuriel had been the Guardian of the Western Gate, and had been occupied smelling every flower that was pleasant to the nose during the whole apple-tree debacle.  He had a smile like dawn over dewdrops and thick, honey-colored curls. Rumor had it he had once modeled for Titian. He was surpassingly beautiful and achingly kind and about as intelligent as the ceramic angels that would line charity shop shelves in ages hence.

“I haven’t seen him,” Aziraphale said. “Not since he started singing, anyway.”

Gabriel sighed. “Hope he hasn’t run into any demons in that state or he’ll get himself discorporated. And that’s the second time this century after that incident with the crocodile.”

“Oh the poor dear. I quite sympathize, the wine here really is delicious--” 

Aziraphale was cut off by the flinty stares of four hungry Archangels who had just run out of rabbit and had not yet set down their knives.

“Erm, anyway, I’m going to take a stroll around the courtyard. Let me know if you need anything!” Aziraphale hastened to the doorway. “I’ll give word if I see Ithuriel.”

It was warm and starry outside, and Aziraphale’s eyes swam for several moments in the deep dusty blue of the summer night. Without celestial powers it was much more difficult to see, giving the darkened city the enchanting blurriness of a fine aquarelle. 

Well, maybe some of the blurriness was due to the house red. Being bereft of angelic abilities, Aziraphale was discovering, also made it far easier to become tipsy.

There was a glint of red across the street, moving slowly and apparently engaged in conversation. Aziraphale squinted and the glint became tall and lanky and appeared rather terrified. Crowley was conversing with Ithuriel, who was hanging on his robes and veering back and forth like a frond of seaweed in a tidal zone. The beautiful angel had indeed run into a fiend, but by a stroke of luck he had lit upon the one demon that was unlikely to attack him with anything more injurious than sarcastic conversation. 

Indeed, Crowley looked so uncomfortable that Aziraphale decided to bestow an act of divine mercy, and crossed the street to get his drunk coworker away from the forces of Hell. If he felt especially motivated to take Crowley’s attention away from an arrestingly handsome and touchy angel, well, Aziraphale had always been quite skilled at hiding his personal motivations within the dictates of altruistic principles.

***

Crowley had had a difficult day.

One year ago the Dark Council had interpreted an augury from the Devil Himself[2] and announced that Satan had commanded Hell’s legions to raise themselves to Earth and get better acquainted with the world they were trying to poison and corrupt. The last year had been a blur of strategy meetings and exhaustive planning for just two weeks on the surface without demonic abilities. 

Crowley had been excited about the prospect of spending a fortnight on Earth knowing Hell’s agents could not exercise any diabolical powers against him and Heaven’s agents would be flitting around practically next door. 

He owed an angel for a dinner of quite remarkable oysters, and a stupid, desperate part of him hoped that perhaps Aziraphale could again be persuaded to stay up talking to him until dawn, even if they both actually needed to sleep. An even stupider and more desperate part of him hoped that with the perfect amount of romantic starlight (for the angel) and wine (for himself), they might stay up until dawn ignoring the need to sleep and dispensing with the need for talking.

Several things interfered with these vague plans of his. First, Aziraphale seemed to be preoccupied with outdrinking his fellow angels and traipsing from one group of goody-two-sandals to the other with what Crowley could only assume was a heaven-sent tolerance for stultifying small talk.

Then, too, Crowley could hardly see anything.[3] Giving up his demonic powers had taken away his ability to see in the dark, but all the occult arts in Hell had been unable to remove the bilious yellow from his eyes, so he was obliged to keep them occluded behind smoked quartz lenses even at night. Human, angel, and demon were alike reduced to lumbering grey smears. As the night deepened, Crowley found it harder and harder to walk around, and asking another demon for help would have been tantamount to begging for his own execution, so he stayed put on his chosen bench and flinched at the undulations of shadows.

When a cheerfully-moving smear spilled a cup of wine on him and apologized profusely, then, he assumed it was Aziraphale.

“Angel?” Crowley hissed at the fuzzy figure that was trying to dab the wine off of his toga with its own robes.

“Why yes, I am!” a bright and heavily slurred voice that was not Aziraphale’s answered. Crowley seized up in panic. “You must be one too, if you spotted me like that. I’m Ithuriel, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The smear bobbed something up and down, presumably its head.

“Charmed,” Crowley squeaked, trying to untangle the angel’s fingers from his clothes. A large group of demons lurked on the other side of the courtyard wall, and if he was going to be caught in the act of embracing an angel, he would really prefer it be the one he had been dreaming about for the better part of four millennia, not any old ethereal idiot who tripped over him at a party.

“I seem to be a bit lost,” Ithuriel said, and he tightened his grip.[4] “I know there are”—he lowered his voice—” _ demons  _ nearby, and I’d hate to be caught wandering around where the infernal forces might be skulking around.”

“How do you know I’m not a demon?” Crowley asked, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. “Hell’s getting roaring drunk right inside this restaurant, you know.” He attempted to gesture to the correct entrance and ended up indicating Heaven’s gathering place. “You ought to be asking me something only an angel would know, shouldn’t you?”

“Oh you  _ can’t  _ be a demon,” Ithuriel said. “You smell like orange blossoms and saffron. Demons, in my limited experience, smell like rotten eggs and the wrong end of horses.”

Crowley, who was of the opinion that horses had no acceptable surfaces, began to dither.

“That’s so sweet of you to worry about me running into demons,” the angel continued, gushing. Crowley wished that Mount Vesuvius would reassert itself and take pity on him by drowning him in fiery ashes.

“Hey, watch it with that language, will you?” he snapped.

“Oh, damn you!” came a voice from disconcertingly nearby.

Ithuriel and Crowley jumped. (The human body, in its unmitigated form, was disappointingly jumpy. Crowley prefered sinuous and slinky, but he would have been willing to compromise at  _ alert, _ for Hell’s sake.)

It was not some higher-up angel horrified to see one of their own clutching the robes of a demon, or some demon alarmed by one of theirs being manhandled by a heavenly creature. It was Aziraphale, cursing the irregular pebbles that had dared to obtrude upon his path.

“Oh, hallo Aziraphale!” Ithuriel called. “I just ran into one of our coworkers, who was nice enough to help me out when I got a little lost--do you know each other?”

Aziraphale froze for a moment, and then thawed again at Crowley’s frantic head shake.

“Not a bit, I’m afraid,” he said, offering a hand to Ithuriel.

“Pity,” Ithuriel said, taking it. “Thank you, you were too kind!” he called to Crowley as he let Aziraphale lead him back to the angels gathered in the restaurant across the way.

Crowley stood stuck in place with what he insisted to himself was pure disgust and absolutely no admixture of mortification. Aziraphale returned after a scant two minutes with a look of smugness that Crowley thought must qualify for some cardinal sin.

“Well, now, Crowley, would you be  _ sweet  _ enough to let me sit here? It would be only  _ too kind. _ ” Aziraphale dropped to the arm of the bench.

“Don’t test your luck, angel,” Crowley snarled. “That moron should be glad I didn’t hit him over the head with a wine jug.”

“He was ever so glad to meet you, couldn’t stop jabbering to me about what a polite fellow you were,” Aziraphale said, eyes sparkling with what Crowley could only describe as sadistic mirth.

He endeavored to meet Aziraphale’s amusement with a glower, but it came out as more of a wince.

“Anyway, the poor dear has had far too much to drink, and I don’t think he’ll recall you too clearly tomorrow. He’s asleep in the inn over there,” Aziraphale said, smoothing down the front of his toga.

“Quite a sight, a flock of drunken angels,” Crowley remarked, eager to transition to a topic of conversation other than his own amiability.

Aziraphale clucked a reproach. “They’re not all that bad! And besides, being an angel is a stressful job. I don’t feel it’s my place to judge them for being, er, enthusiastic the first time they really get to let their feathers down.”

“I don’t think my lot are handling themselves all that better, truth be told.” Crowley had offered Aziraphale a great heap of earnestness and truth since they had reconnected in Rome several years prior. To his consternation, he found that honesty was addictive.

“Are you also, well, fully human for now?” Aziraphale asked.

“So the rumor is true, Heaven did give up its powers to walk among the progeny of Adam and Eve as equals,” Crowley said with satisfaction. “That strikes me as the kind of thing you’re not supposed to be telling a fiend of Hell.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Can you keep that as privileged information?”

Crowley pretended to consider for a moment, then smiled one of his least predatory smiles. “Your secret is, well, it’s no worse off with me than it was with you, you’re the one telling the world. And yeah, Hell’s also not got powers now.”

“Oh thank you, that’s very k—”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“If one more angel calls me kind tonight I’m going to throw myself into the Tiber.”

“Well I should hope not. Then you’d end up back in Hell, and just as I was rather enjoying this conversation.”

Crowley started to give a grunt of dismissal, but it stuck in his throat and emerged as something far less contemptuous.

“Anyway, how do you like being completely human?” Aziraphale asked, mercifully ignoring Crowley’s attempt at derision.

“It’s OK. I got drunk quicker.”

“I’ve found it all terribly invigorating,” Aziraphale said. 

When he was amused, and trying to contain it, Crowley’s smiles tilted to the left. “I don’t remember you being so  _ invigorated _ by the physical world the first time it rained. And you hated it the first time it snowed.”

“It’s not all  _ pleasant, _ but it’s bracing,” Aziraphale replied. “And just think, we can see everything exactly the way the humans can!”

“Yes, right,” Crowley said, staring ahead into the grey blur that comprised the entirety of his visual field.

“It’s such a beautiful night. Everything’s kind of...of soft-looking. It makes the starlight quite romantic.” Aziraphale gave an audible sigh.

Crowley felt his throat tighten. “Yeah, it’s really nice,” he said into the featureless smudge before him. “Lots of, er, visually appealing stars tonight.” 

There was a slightly awkward pause in which Aziraphale squeezed each of his own hands very tightly, one after the other.

“Would you like a drink?” Crowley asked at last. 

Aziraphale frowned a little. “No, I think I’d better not, thank you--this corporation’s really not up to much more carousing, more’s the pity. You know, I have the oddest sensation the wine tastes sweeter, being human.” He turned and looked at Crowley with his disarming clear-afternoon eyes, which Crowley could only imagine and not perceive. “Am I just being horribly sentimental?”

“You’re an  _ angel, _ I think it’s a hopeless case by nature.”

Aziraphale sighed, not sounding offended in the slightest. 

“Or maybe,” Crowley said, pushing his better judgment into the forsaken corner it usually occupied when he was speaking to Aziraphale, “perhaps it tastes better because you can’t have so much, being human.” 

He paused, then plunged in. “Maybe you want something more when you’re not allowed to enjoy it."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in, if not divine judgment, then at least ethereal shrewdness.

“Wouldn’t that be coveting? An angel doesn’t covet, that’s your area.” He flicked his fingers as if to shake the droplets of envy off of his soft and virtuous hands onto the iniquitous floor.

With the kind of stupidity he tried to reserve for special occasions, Crowley blundered on. “Well, perhaps you should try coveting something. Might do you a bit of good, nice little spot of coveting to set off all that moral integrity.”

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. He leaned over the arm of the bench a little closer.

“Perhaps  _ you _ should try a bit of generosity. A nice little drop of kindness to set off all that coveting.”

Crowley flinched at ‘kindness.’ “Of the two of us, I’ve already been called  _ sweet _ by two angels tonight, which is about one and a half angels too many.” His voice got softer, smokier. “ _ You  _ have yet to be accused of infamy by a demon, so I think it’s your turn.” He leaned conspicuously away from Aziraphale.

“Wait, that’s half an angel that’s permitted to call you sweet,” Aziraphale objected, seemingly distressed by the distance. “You’ll have to let me know which half of me it is.”

Crowley turned around so fast that his elbow knocked Aziraphale off balance, and the angel fell from his place on the arm of the bench. Aziraphale only halted when his fall was broken by a slightly squashed Crowley. The bench creaked and the smoked quartz sunglasses fell to the ground.

“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said. He shifted but did not stand, and stayed slumped in Crowley’s lap. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“I feel alright,” said Crowley, who felt ecstatic. 

Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. “Dear me, it’s hardly appropriate for an angel to be  _ falling _ like this.”

Suddenly he gasped and looked up at Crowley with eyes that were full of gentleness and empty of focus.

“Oh goodness, I didn’t mean  _ Falling _ in any ontological sense—”

“Course not,” Crowley deflected. 

Aziraphale’s face still looked stricken. “I didn’t intend—”

Crowley could feel the moment slipping and forced it back into lightheartedness. “Really, it’s OK.” He smiled at the angel on his lap. “Look, there’s some benefits to being a professional fallen angel.” 

“Oh? Tell me,” Aziraphale said. His voice was incredibly prim. His hand on the back of Crowley’s neck was becoming a bit less so.

“Well for one thing,” Crowley said as his arms snaked around Aziraphale’s waist, “you don’t have to worry so much about what’s _ hardly appropriate _ .”

Aziraphale, eternal being of light, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and protector of Eden, gave a tiny giggle.

Among numerous other alarming bodily sensations, Crowley felt a kind of adoration come over him that was so strong it was indistinguishable from the impression of imminent doom. 

“I always do what’s appropriate, dear boy,” Aziraphale smiled with indulgence. “I’m an angel. I can’t do anything wrong.”

Although he was pretty sure it was drowned out by the thundering palpations of his human heart, Crowley managed to say, “Would you like to try?”

Aziraphale’s hands crept up Crowley’s neck until they began to tangle shyly in his hair. If the panicked screaming of all Crowley’s nerve endings was to be trusted, they left at least second-degree burns on the way there.

“Only if you’d be so sweet as to oblige me,” Aziraphale cooed, and leaned forward.

There was a terrific crash from inside where the demons were gathered, then a shard of pottery rolled into the courtyard and a series of expletives that had not been heard since the Tower of Babel was just a series of ambitious architectural sketches was loosed into the air.

When Aziraphale and Crowley both turned in the direction of the shouts, their noses brushed. The night seemed all at once very cold.

“I sort of forgot about all those demons,” Aziraphale breathed. “Erm, perhaps I’d better return to Heaven’s side of the street? Should check on Ithuriel.” He began to extricate his fingers from Crowley’s hair. The absence left behind was a unique kind of torment Crowley had never encountered in Hell.

“Probably the right thing to do,” Crowley said, letting go of Aziraphale with arms that had become completely numb. The shouting from the restaurant bypassed a racket and went straight to a din as the cursing became nastier.

Aziraphale stood up and gave Crowley’s hand a quick, apologetic squeeze. Then he adjusted the brooch at his own shoulder and half-walked, half-ran back to the angels.

Crowley waited until he could no longer see Aziraphale before he put his sunglasses back on and the world went grey.

Footnotes

1 The French language and its attendant pretensions had yet to be invented, but Gabriel was pretentious ahead of his time.  [ return to text ]

2 Crowley was not privy to the Dark Council’s divination, but it always seemed to involve a great deal of wallowing in viscera and relatively little interpretive subtlety.  [ return to text ]

3 He was pretty sure that his hopes for staying up all night and not-talking could be accomplished without much recourse to the sense of sight. After all, there is hardly anything more seductive than the illusory freedom of a dark room. However, Crowley was concerned that his newfound propensity for walking into walls might be less than sexy.  [ return to text ]

4 Angels are very strong, even the pudgy ones who haven’t practiced swordsmanship in four millennia, and Ithuriel was one of the first century’s foremost fitness enthusiasts.  [ return to text ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is taken from the only song about as swoony as Crowley is here, namely [Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by The Platters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfBboBz3yoc)
> 
> Ithuriel's appearance is based on [this cutie](https://www.wikiart.org/en/titian/angel-1522) from the [Averoldi Polyptych](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Averoldi_Polyptych).


	2. Nasty Work If You Can Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives a Powerpoint presentation, Archangels and Lords of Hell discuss terms, Aziraphale and Crowley reunite, and Aziraphale prepares for a corporate retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible Powerpoint slides in this chapter were made by the one and only Pollitt, and will haunt me forever in the best way. The illustrations of Crowley disclaiming his graphic design of said slides were done by the wonderful snailcities, and they're amazing. Thank you to both of these artists for bringing this chapter to glorious life!

In one of the more loathsome pits of Hell, one demon was torturing another. The first demon inflicted unbearable agony upon the second with a single, infinitely painful question.

“Hey, Crowley, you’re still going to take my shift this Saturday, right?” Ligur asked.

From the break room table, Crowley gave a sigh so lengthy it could have inflated several air mattresses, at least if the occupants weren’t too fussed about a good night’s sleep. Crowley had arranged his limbs carefully so that he was blocking all of the chairs without really sitting on any of them. He was wearing sunglasses in the lightless gloom that might have been enough to hide a multitude of sins, but were not enough to hide his scowling self-pity.

“Haven’t done an orientation in ages,” he whined. “You don’t want me taking yours, I’ll just fuck it up.” It was a weak argument. Dukes of Hell had been pawning off their customer service duties on lower-ranking employees since shortly after the fall of Lucifer. A certain amount of grumbling from the poor sap stuck with additional work was traditional, actual defiance was not.

Crowley hesitated, then added, “Also I’ve got an appointment, er, topside.”

He was supposed to pick up Aziraphale from the airport on Saturday afternoon, and he didn’t want to show up at Heathrow straight from Hell (however little distinction others might care to draw between the two locations). For one thing, Crowley knew he reeked of sulfur and worse, and would have done terrible things for a shower. For another, Aziraphale tended to get tetchy after long flights, and Crowley had learned from long and painful experience that tetchy angels were best handled delicately, with a punctual[5] arrival and, if possible, a mollifying box of chocolate croissants.

Ligur’s eyes flashed red, a warning as clear-cut as a stoplight and as vicious as a sudden bloodletting.

“What have you got up there that’s so important?” he asked. “Can’t cover my Saturday shift because you’ve got a hot date?”

“Yeah there’s a lovely boa constrictor I’ve been seeing, thought we might go for a little picnic in the park,” Crowley snapped, standing up and beginning to pace around the table. 

“Crowley,” Ligur snarled, interrupting Crowley’s way to the door, “I reckon it’d be really _beneficial_ for you, if you could cover my shift.” The light reflected in his eyes looked like sparks of hellfire.

When Saturday morning arrived, Crowley found himself dusting off some very old notes.

***

A group of recently damned souls sat in the kind of uncomfortable plastic chair that made people regret the solidity of their own vertebrae. They had adhesive nametags that refused to adhere to anything and small plates of crackers that left them less satisfied after eating than they had been before they began. On the wall where there should have been a clock, a digital display simply read “OVERDUE”.

An ancient amplifier crackled, then an AC/DC song[6] blared from the front of the room as Crowley sauntered to the podium. He was carrying a clicker and an uncertain smile. A projector screen unscrolled from above, bringing with it several moldering clumps of ceiling.[7] Crowley made a motion to someone in the next room to cut the music, then he pulled out an index card, frowned at it, and shuffled to get a different index card in front.

“Right, er, welcome to Hell.” Crowley clicked once and a slide appeared with WELCOME TO HELL surrounded by multiple low-resolution clip art images of flames.

Someone raised a hand. Crowley nodded.

‘Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“Er, if you wouldn’t mind, let’s hold questions until the end of the presentation,” Crowley said, smoothing the frayed edge of his jacket like he wished he could do to the frayed edge of his nerves. He glanced at the slide. “Right, just to be clear, I’m not the graphic designer.”

Somebody gave a weak laugh and was immediately reprimanded by his neighbor’s elbow.

“So,” Crowley continued, “you’re here because you fucked up. You’re eternally damned. Lost a wager with Pascal. You’re dead and you’re never getting out.” He stopped, cleared his throat, and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you about eternal torment and warn you about the horrific agony that will be inflicted upon you by, well, not the wrath of God but the spleen of Satan,” Crowley paused and grimaced. “Truth be told that’s never really lit my lake on fire. Really, I think you lot have it easy. Nowadays there’s so many of you down here the demons don’t have a lot of time for personalized attention.”

Someone shuffled in their chair and it let out a loud screech.

“Honestly, if Hell gets you down you lot should be glad you don’t have to go to staff meetings,” Crowley said earnestly. “You want to talk about everlasting torment, try sitting through the Dark Council’s quarterly reports while you’re _awake_ .” He laughed a little at his own joke. “OK, so we’ve got that down.” Crowley made a little check mark on one of his cards where it said _Eternity of Torment._

Another hand was raised.

“I said hold questions, you know.” The hand slunk down, but was not fully retracted. “Oh fine, spit it out.”

“Would you mind turning on the A/C, Mr. Demon, or whatever? It’s really hot in here.” The woman was fanning herself with the plate that had held the unsatisfying crackers, which was about as effective as tossing an ice cube into the sun.

“It’s _Hell,_ ” Crowley said. “We don’t have A/C , that’s the whole sodding point. Should have thought of that before you”—he rifled through the notes on his clipboard—” _murdered your cousin,_ Brenda. _Jesus,_ Brenda.”

“He’s not bad looking, you know,” Brenda’s neighbor whispered to her.

“Like, I wouldn’t say no to a date, I guess,” Brenda whispered back.

“I wouldn’t say no to a—” 

“ _OK,_ let’s try to focus here, we’ve still got a lot of information to cover,” Crowley interrupted. He cleared his throat and started reading off another card.“Right, so, Hell was founded thousands of years ago after the War in Heaven and has remained the preeminent destination for damned souls since the creation of man—wow, forgot how much we really do lay it on thick in the promotional materials—and the infernal regions continue to expand today to accommodate the needs of—right, you get the bloody picture, OK, we covered the history of Hell.” Crowley made another small check mark.

“Is there anything to watch on television?” a voice called from the back.

“I said no questions, we haven’t gone over the code of conduct and you still need to sign a lot of paperwork.”

“You can’t be saying there’s no telly here. Really?”

“Why should there be any television?” 

“Wait, wait,” Brenda interrupted. “What the he—what are we supposed to do here forever with no TV sitting in 7,000 degree heat?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, waving a hand as if swatting away the question. Exasperation made him twitchy. “Go bother some other demon. Take up hot yoga. Become a masochist. Chase down every person who ever annoyed the snot out of you in life and tell them all the clever comebacks you came up with in the shower. You know, the usual coping strategies.”[8]

Another hand. “Did you know the ceiling is coming apart right here—”

“Look, I’m not in Residential Services, OK?” Crowley moaned. “I’m not the architect of your misery, I’m just a lowly little demon. Just lead people to sin, don’t decide what happens to them once they’ve taken up jogging on the primrose path, got it?”

“You what? You’re saying your job is to get more people in Hell?” 

“You’re one of that nasty lot responsible for us being here!”

Crowley did not like the direction the conversation had taken. He felt he had lost control of the room somewhat, and he took a step back as several of the damned moved angrily forward with the confidence of people who have nothing to lose.

“Glad you get to wash your hands of us now, once you’ve collected your paycheck bringing us in!”

“What, d’you get bonuses when you cajole more poor buggers into this place?”

“It’s not really a metrics-based system,” Crowley said weakly, shrinking behind the podium. A group of the damned lost patience and rushed forwards.

There was a flash of light and the damned souls were thrown back; Crowley’s hastily-drawn sigil evaporated in an acrid puff.

“Look, I’m the demon here, and believe me when I say I’m one of the most _approachable._ ” He took off his sunglasses and stared at them with yellow, unblinking venom.

“Whoa, ok, no, the date’s off,” Brenda said, flinching at Crowley’s snakelike stare.

“Oh it’s still on,” her neighbor replied. 

Crowley pretended not to hear this speculation.

He gave the slide presentation a very angry click. There was a large picture of Salzburg, Austria, with the Von Trapp family standing and singing on the hillsides and blocky off center text that read THE HILLS ARE DEAD.

“Eh, don’t worry too much about this one,” Crowley said, and clicked on. “Right, now you’ll all need to sign some agreements, and mind you read the fine print in the terms and conditions…”

“Hey, you, approachable demon, is my wife here?” a man called from the back of the room. He had spent most of Crowley’s presentation talking with his neighbor—they seemed as if they knew each other from life. “I’d like to call her, if I can.”

Crowley glanced at the clipboard “No, sorry, er, Bill. Or rather, congratulations. You’re wife’s Upstairs.”

The man’s friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Always said she was too good for you Bill.”

“Oh I knew. Wouldn’t have settled for less. Still don’t know why she did,” Bill said, smiling a tiny bit. “Can I call her, though?” he asked Crowley. “She died just a month before me.”

Crowley felt a twinge in his chest from something other than the high levels of ambient asbestos. Looking briefly at Bill’s record, Crowley could see no murders or other obvious depravities, just a long string of mistakes and moments of unkindness and broken relationships never properly repaired. There were flashes of anger and selfishness and jealousy. 

“That’s a very, very long waiting list, calls to the other side. Sometimes people try to arrange a simultaneous haunting,” Crowley offered.

“Oh.” Bill looked heartbroken. Crowley felt his throat prickle and swell. Heaven is just as much at fault for this sort of thing, he told himself firmly.

“Enough about conjugal visits,” another man cut in. “What’s the wifi password?”

Crowley gave a deep, exhausted sigh. 

***

Hours later, a black Bentley roared across the highway, swerving with a kind of demented grace and cutting off cars in traffic.

“Hey you, take your fancy car and go to hell!” a motorist screamed at Crowley.

The demon threw up his hands as the car continued to careen on the roadway.

“Joke’s on you, mate, I was just there,” Crowley shouted. He grinned and gunned the engine.

_Michael_

There is no stairway to Heaven, but there is an escalator. It resides in a big lobby next to what’s usually called the Maw of Hell but is actually just a different escalator that’s out of service more frequently and whose occupants are quieter and smell substantially worse.

Michael stepped off the escalator on an inhospitable January day, and entered the next-door coffee shop. Gabriel was alongside her, wearing a lavender scarf and an expression of vacant benevolence. They waited to order with none of the expectancy of habitual coffee drinkers.[9]

They ordered two lattes and carried them to the least desirable table, letting a family of five have the more comfortable seats at the back of the shop. Michael had read that that was polite in a book long ago. Children made her uncomfortable; she had never been other than an adult, and she distrusted anything that was perpetually sticky.

Several minutes passed, during which the angels made polite sips at their lattes. Though she never mentioned it to Gabriel, Michael was fond of human food in the same distant way that someone who puts pictures of trees on the background of their computer is fond of the wilderness.

“Beelzebub’s late, as usual,” Michael said.

“What did you expect from a demon?” Gabriel asked. “Punctuality is a virtue.” He had that on a mouse pad in his office. He had never used a mouse.

Michael tapped an elegant finger on the chrome table impatiently.

“No matter what happens, it won’t be as bad as the Venice retreat,” Gabriel said.

“That’s hardly comforting.”

There was a little _pling_ from the bell over the doorway and two more figures entered the shop. Beelzebub was looking just as malevolent as they usually were, if somewhat less benighted by rotting flesh and buzzing flies. Dagon leered at the customers around her half-heartedly, with the mild interest of someone who had skipped lunch and just caught sight of an acceptable sandwich. 

Michael waved, and Dagon made a hand gesture like acknowledgment while Beelzebub lifted their chin slightly. The demons ordered something and waited at the counter for their drinks without further acknowledging Gabriel and Michael.

‘No sense of politeness,” said Gabriel, who had once driven those very demons over the edge of Heaven into a bottomless pit of flaming sulfur with the hilt of a sword.

“Indeed,” said Michael. “Gabriel, are you going to finish your latte?”

Beelzebub and Dagon made their way over to the table with the Archangels. The Prince of Hell had purchased a complicated confection of a drink that was bright red and covered in what looked like biscuit crumbs (further inspection would have revealed that this monstrosity was called The Devil’s Delight and had its own much-mocked social media campaign). Dagon was sipping a cup of boiling water. At their approach, Michael and Gabriel rose politely.

“Archangels,” Beelzebub greeted them curtly.

“Your Highness.” Michael gave a slight incline of her head. When speaking with high-ranking demons she used the kind of graciousness that comes with lethally sharp edges.

Gabriel nodded and gestured to the empty seats. After he sat down and passed Michael his hardly-drunk latte he looked around and rubbed his palms together.

“Well, it’s that time again,” he said. “Company retreat is coming up, and as I think we’re all aware, there aren’t that many places that can accommodate the ethereal and the occult with appropriate protections.”[10]

“I got your list of suggested locations, Gabriel.” Beelzebub stirred the horrid red drink. 

“Ah, great, great. See I wasn’t sure, because I never got a _confirmation email._ ” He winced a little, as though he’d caught the Prince of Hell making an embarrassing mistake.

“I just didn’t care about replying to you,” Beelzebub said flatly. 

“We didn’t get a suggested list from you,” Michael said, “I know demons don’t share, but would you care to mention anything?”

Traditionally, the retreat had been conducted without the use of ethereal or occult powers. As that made for a somewhat trying time for everyone involved, and because many of the participants only came to Earth incidentally, the location was usually chosen from among the places on Earth with the most advanced plumbing and no prohibition on alcohol.

Gabriel looked around the coffeeshop, then snapped his fingers and a small shoebox appeared in his hand with “Suggestions and Comments” written on it in metallic gold script so lovely it was entirely unreadable.

“We got several suggestions for Japan,” Michael said, pulling small pieces of paper from the box. She frowned. “Including this one written on the back of a receipt from a shabu-shabu restaurant in London.”

“Japan is out,” Dagon said flatly. “It’s going to be freezing that time of year.”

Gabriel sighed. The demons always wanted to go somewhere miserably hot. Stockholm Syndrome, Gabriel always called it.

“Look, we’ll have to make some compromises,” Gabriel said. “We’re not going to have the retreat in Las Vegas just because that’s what Hell wants…”

“Of course we’re not going to Las Vegas,” Beelzebub scoffed. “We haven’t allowed business travel there for fifty years. Oversaturated with sin, they named the whole city after it. Any demon who tries to take credit for temptations in Las Vegas is full of it."

"And ineligible for annual bonuses,” Dagon added.

“Interesting,” Gabriel frowned. “I remember we got reports from one of our agents that he was tracking a demon to Las Vegas to prevent some diabolical scheme from being realized. This was 1970-something, don’t remember which demon it was.”[11]

“Must have been personal time off,” Beelzebub said through gritted teeth. 

They traded suggestions for another hour, with the angels rejecting some locations for being too disreputable and the demons rejecting others for being too well-regulated.

“OK, if you’re looking for more laxity, how about that place in Florida?” Michael cut in, ready for what she and Gabriel had already agreed was a reasonable backup option. “I understand that the hotel operator did a bit of dabbling in summoning and Satanism in her younger days. Should be able to guarantee discretion. And it will be Hell’s preferred weather of miserably hot.”

“Plus, the fitness center is open 24 hours a day,” Gabriel chimed in.

Beelzebub took the brochure Michael handed them. White sand beaches did not really agree with the Prince of Hell, but Michael had correctly surmised that Hell could do worse than a place that was discreet, warm, and crowded with easily-influenced tourists.

“Yes, all right. We’ll do it,” Beelzebub assented.

“Wonderful. I trust that this year there won’t be any more combative entanglements?” Michael’s smile was as mild as it was treacherous. “We’ll make it clear to our employees that although violence may be justified, it is strictly against policy for the duration of this retreat.”[12]

Dagon folded her arms. Her eyes were glassy and menacing, but then, they always were.

“And in return, we ask that your employees refrain from carrying out the havoc and mayhem act until they’re back belowground,” Gabriel finished.

“Let’s talk about payment details,” Beelzebub said, without agreeing or disagreeing. “That’s what we’re all actually here for.”

“Always so quick to get to the deal with the Devil,” Gabriel said through a toothy grin.

‘We’re splitting the security deposit and the insurance evenly this time,” Beelzebub said with one pointed fingertip balanced on the chrome table. “You’re not getting away with making Hell pay more when you’re just as supernatural as we are. And I don’t think I have to remind you of Venice…”

“You don’t, Your Highness,” Michael cut in quickly. “But you need to understand that your group presents”—she looked at Dagon, who was drawing demonic symbols with the crystals from a sugar packet—”more of a liability than our employees do. I have it on good authority.”

“We don’t care for your good authority,” Beelzebub mocked.

“If you don’t want to abide by the terms we agreed on earlier, that’s a no on the open bar and we’re establishing a curfew,” Gabriel said, exasperated. 

“We should do that,” Dagon hissed at Beelzebub. “It’s not fair we always pay more. The other demons can handle paying for their own drinks and going to bed early.”

Beelzebub shot Dagon a look that said _come on, let’s be serious._ “What about if Hell pays 65%?”

Gabriel and Michael looked at each other pointedly, which was mostly for show, since they could communicate telepathically.

“We’ll accept that,” Michael said. “Now if you wouldn’t mind signing.” 

Beelzebub scrawled something across the page in surprisingly neat handwriting. The page smoked a little. Dagon pressed one thumb on the page, which left behind something that might have been an ancient mark of indescribable evil, or might have been a grease stain.

“Close enough,” Gabriel muttered, and signed it using an elegant fountain pen. He had never refilled the ink.

Far Above and far Below, angels and demons received an invitation.

_Aziraphale_

Out of the brilliant blue sky, an angel was falling through tens of thousands of meters of space, rushing downwards from Heaven. 

Then Aziraphale’s plane landed in Heathrow airport.

 _And not a moment too soon_ , he thought. He had employed more divine patience than usual turning the proverbial other cheek to the children behind him kicking his seat, and he was grumpy after a lengthy flight from Australia and an aerial breakfast that was disappointing even for the abysmal standards of its altitude.

Aziraphale did not enjoy airplanes even when the people behind him were courteous and short-legged. He wasn’t fearful—what did he have to fear, an immortal creature born of the skies?—and he’d endured far less comfortable modes of travel before the world had become mechanized and climate-controlled and supplied with in-flight movies. Still, it felt distinctly _wrong_ to be tens of thousands of feet up in the atmosphere without using his wings. He always felt as though he ought to be falling, and he was not, and it put the mysterious channels of his inner ear into what is known in the medical profession as “a tizzy.” It was simply not right to be personally flightless yet communally airborne.

That kind of thing never seemed to bother Crowley, Aziraphale thought with more than a little bitterness. On long flights Crowley typically got drunk on business class scotch, played music in his headphones loud enough to disturb his seatmates, and watched interchangeable heist movies with sniper guns and sexy actors until he was lulled into an exceedingly comfortable stupor that not even the most rambunctious seat-kicker could threaten.

Aziraphale was feeling quite put out as he made his way through the crowded corridors, listening to the click of his old-fashioned shoes and feeling too hot inside his heavy camel coat. He brightened considerably when he entered the Arrivals greeting area. Friends and family who had been separated by time and distance converged upon each other in a veritable swarm of goodwill. It was enough concentrated love to make an angel feel positively light-headed,[13] and it was so restorative that Aziraphale was unable to suppress a smile as he made his way to baggage claim.

He collected his luggage (sturdy and sensible), bought himself a styrofoam cup of earl grey (over-brewed and disappointing), and followed the signs with the car icon to Ground Transportation (loud and full of exhaust). Crowley was supposed to pick him up no later than half past eleven, unless Aziraphale phoned him that he had been delayed. (He had change in his pocket for Heathrow’s last payphone, still resisting the purchase of a mobile with adamantine stubbornness and no small amount of personal inconvenience.) At 11:28, Aziraphale gave up on drinking his disappointing tea. At 11:32, he began humming tunelessly and drumming his fingers on the handle of his suitcase. At 12:15, he put a bookmark in chapter two of the novel he had started and looked up and down for some sign of the Bentley.

Still no demon. Aziraphale began to feel anxious, and more cross than he had planned on, even as the travellers around him, originally on edge waiting for their hotel shuttles and buses and taxis, grew more and more relaxed from prolonged exposure to his angelic presence.

He was feeling annoyed with Crowley. In fact, Aziraphale was annoyed with Crowley quite frequently. It was partially because Crowley was a nuisance by profession, but also because annoyance was one of a small number of permissible emotions he felt for Crowley. His annoyance tended to increase when all the impermissible emotions were especially keen.

Some of those feelings were disallowed simply because they were fond. About a thousand years after the world began, Azirphale finally admitted to himself that he really did enjoy spending time with a demon who was as indispensable as he was insufferable. These fond feelings were tolerated. They were watched for worsening signs of infection ( _call your doctor in the morning if you develop shortness of breath or unexplained nausea, isn’t that how it goes?_ ). Aziraphale was always watchful of their temperature and ready to cool them down, lest they grow feverish.

Other feelings were trickier. Aziraphale was only an amateur theologian, but he was pretty sure the injunction to “love your enemies” was not supposed to have unlimited practical applications. If it was suspect for an angel to invite a demon to his home for dinner, it was truly unthinkable the same demon should be there for breakfast the next day. Aziraphale usually insisted to himself he was innocent of any impure thoughts about his hellish friend in the face of what the legal profession terms the preponderance of evidence. Sometimes when it was late and he was lonely, the evidence preponderated very much indeed.

But the most damning feelings of all were the ones that crested like waves inside of Aziraphale’s chest at the merest sight of Crowley, the ones that brewed storms in him at the first syllables of Crowley’s obnoxious telephone greeting, the ones that shattered him with the rage of a boiling sea when he drew a smile from Crowley’s lips. These were too dangerous even to deny; there was no way to allude to them without invoking their terrible immensity. So he was shattered, and stormed at, and determined to drown before ever acknowledging he was sinking.

A large vintage car screeched to a halt in front of Aziraphale. With its smooth black surface and unnatural shine, it looked like the carapace of an enormous insect, especially when the doors opened like wings to let out a frantic Crowley. 

“Angel! I’m late, I’m sorry,” he sputtered. Crowley was wearing a parka over a t-shirt with a picture of a half-rotted banana on it and his hair was sopping wet.

“Nice of you to turn up,” Aziraphale said. His voice was as cool as his undrunk tea. 

“Look, Aziraphale, _traffic was Hell,_ ” Crowley said significantly, tipping his sunglasses forward a little and exposing a line of serpentine sincerity.

Aziraphale stopped abruptly midway through climbing into the Bentley. “Wait, do you mean the traffic was really dreadful or”—he lowered his voice—”are you invoking _the codes?_ ”

“‘Course I’m invoking the codes, really, angel.” Crowley hissed with exasperation. Aziraphale was rubbish with the codes.

They had developed them for speaking about the more supernatural aspects of their careers. It was Crowley’s idea, cooked up after he’d watched some of those heist movies on a transatlantic flight and perhaps before the haze of the business class scotch had entirely faded. “Traffic was Hell” indicated an intervention from Below, while “The cake was Heavenly” was a sign that Above had recalled Aziraphale for an unexpected one-on-one. Needless to say, the ordinary presence of London traffic and toothsome sweets made these codes less than truly effective.

As the Bentley roared out of Heathrow, Aziraphale clutched the door handle, but it was mostly the necessary theatrics. He was pleased to be getting on with what promised to be a delightful afternoon. 

They stopped first at a cafe for the chocolate croissants Crowley hadn’t picked up en route to Heathrow. (“Not that I expect that! Don’t be silly, dear.” Aziraphale protested.) 

Crowley sipped on an espresso and declined offers to share any of the croissants. “I’ve eaten recently,” he explained.[14]

“I assume you heard about the retreat,” Aziraphale said in a hushed tone, as though they were discussing the gruesome medical complaint of a mutual, and unsatisfactory, acquaintance.

Crowley made a kind of slow-motion wince.“I hope they took some of my suggestions,” he said, twirling the slice of biscotti that had come with his espresso.

“What on Earth did you suggest?” Aziraphale said, with a bit more irritation than he meant.

“See, I told you, you _are_ grumpy after you fly,” Crowley said, with an accusatory jab of the biscotti in Aziraphale’s direction. “Let’s think. I told them we should go somewhere with a swim-up bar. I don’t want to have to _leave the pool_ to get more drinks.” He said this as if the magnitude of the inconvenience could not be measured in increments smaller than light-years.

“Charming, my dear,” Aziraphale said, reaching for another croissant with fingers he had conscientiously wiped the grease from after every buttery bite. The waiter brought their check over.

“Let me get the bill, I’m sorry I’ve been short with you,” Aziraphale said.

“Come off it, are you kidding? D’you know what day it was yesterday? It was Friday the 13th.” Crowley held up a perfectly black credit card.[15]

Aziraphale and Crowley had developed a sort of routine they practiced whenever one or both of them came back from a long absence. Depending on the weather, they would usually see a concert in the park or a show at the theater. (These performances were always a gamble, and alternately left Aziraphale in states of rapture and states of withering criticism. But that was part of the fun.)

Afterwards they would order takeout curry, pick up a few baklava slices from the kebab shop down the street for dessert (the walnut, not the pistachio, Aziraphale would insist), and make their way to the bookshop. They would then watch several hours of the most dreadful television Aziraphale could stomach; reality TV was one of Hell’s few successful group projects, and it inspired a pleasant nostalgia in Crowley.

Aziraphale was opposed to it with every intangible fiber of his ethereal being, but he nonetheless derived a great deal of satisfaction in being roundly scandalized by the outlandish behavior of the contestants now and again. After watching so many centuries of profound iniquity and human suffering, it was nice to get worked up about incredibly stupid and inconsequential things. Aziraphale would cluck his tongue and shake his head and occasionally gasp aloud whenever anyone on the show did something untoward, which was more or less constantly, and Crowley seemed to find his principled noises of dissent almost unbearably delightful. 

At three o’clock in the morning,  _Love Island [ _ _16]_ ceded its airwaves to the relentless drone of infomercials. With a click of the remote, the television shut off, leaving the inhabitants of the room—Aziraphale, Crowley, an empty wine bottle, a plastic tray of baklava crumbs, and sundry ineradicable spiders—in the darkness.

“Don’t let me sleep for a decade,” Crowley mumbled into a throw pillow. He had fallen into horizontality, and almost into sleep.

“Well I certainly can’t do that, Hell will be looking for you at the retreat,” Azirphale picked at a honeyed piece of phyllo left on the plastic tray. “Also, I don’t want you drooling on my divan.”

Crowley groaned into the upholstery. “I forgot about the retreat. On second thought, please let me sleep for a decade.”

Aziraphale hesitated for half a minute, then patted Crowley’s head lightly. “I don’t think I could spare you for another decade, dear,” he said, as matter-of-fact as he could manage. 

Crowley made a muffled sound through the pillow, leaving Aziraphale wondering what it was he’d tried to say. It might have been some attempt to brush off the affection, a “who could?” or a “don’t be thick, angel”. It might have been “thank you,” although that was pretty scandalous language for a demon. It might have been “I don’t think I could spare you that long either.”

It was none of these things. It was a snore, because Crowley had fallen asleep and hadn’t heard what Aziraphale said.

***

Aziraphale was quiet in the night as Crowley snored lightly on his sofa. He made himself a cup of earl grey (always exactly two splashes of milk, fewer was tragic and more was faintly obscene), read half of the novel he had started ( _The Counterfeiters)_ , and decoded an ancient prophecy that was rather splendidly off-the-mark (New Zealand had not, in fact, started a nuclear war with Antarctica in the late 1990s). Mostly he kept his eyes riveted to the pages of his novel and his prophecies, so much so that was more than once forced to reheat his tea with a whispered miracle after it had gone cold during his perusals. 

Occasionally he looked over at Crowley. Aziraphale marvelled that anyone could possibly be comfortable sleeping in those horrifically tight jeans. (Not that he was looking at the regions of Crowley covered by his jeans. Still, the fabric was tight enough that, Heaven help him, the topography of said regions was quite evident from incidental glances.) Crowley was sleeping with his head wrenched at an alarming angle to the sofa and his limbs were so awkwardly twisted they would have made a Celtic knot look positively linear.

Aziraphale was reluctant to wake him up, nor did he want to attempt an untangling, but he decided he should at least make sure his friend was warm. Shaking out an old plaid blanket, which disgorged a frightful amount of lint, Aziraphale tucked Crowley in. Crowley moved slightly, sunglasses slipping down his face, but remained asleep, awkwardly twisted, and encased in constricting denim. Aziraphale went back to his desk, pretending not to notice the drool on his couch cushion. 

Dawn rose like an angelic halo[17] over London’s horizon, gilding the smog and taunting the insomniacs. Aziraphale considered getting breakfast out of doors, but he didn’t want to leave Crowley snoozing on the sofa in a shop that saw occasional visits from the heavenly hosts, so instead he made himself three soft-boiled eggs and unwrapped the last quarter of a quiche lorraine that had been languishing in the refrigerator. To encourage Crowley to wake up, he took care to clatter his plate and to scrape his knife and fork with more than the usual vigor.

Five hours later, when morning was yielding to the warm embrace of noon, Crowley was still not yielding to anything like wakefulness, and Aziraphale was forced to resort to something he almost never did. He removed the vacuum cleaner from the front closet with the most reluctant of tugs, and animated it with the most regretful of switchings-on.

As soon as the vacuum roared to life, Crowley leapt forward from the plaid blanket and the crushed cushions.

“I have to fix the air conditioning! It’s broken, someone—got to turn it on,” Crowley rambled into the air.

“Good morning, Crowley, I’m afraid you’ve missed breakfast,” Aziraphale said, hastily unplugging the vacuum. 

“Wot?” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale. “Oh right, sorry, angel, I forgot I fell asleep here.”

“Oh it’s no trouble at all, I’m sorry I woke you. You were sleeping so soundly I was convinced the vacuum cleaner wouldn’t make the slightest difference!” Aziraphale’s smile was a bit wider than was really necessary, but Crowley was busy looking for his sunglasses and disentangling himself from the enormous blanket, and didn’t notice.

Half an hour later, after a cup of ceylon and an admonishment about his sleeping habits, Crowley left the shop. Aziraphale was free to stop worrying about the demonic presence in his flat and free to start worrying about tomorrow’s appointment in Heaven.

Aziraphale had very much wanted to be on the planning committee for the retreat, despite his general objections to working with other people, showing up to the office, and anything involving the word “committee.” Despite his near-constant exasperation with his managers, he very much wanted things to go well and felt somewhat responsible for the well-being of the other angels on earth: it was, after all, his territory. Additionally, a small part of his mind told him it would be good to show up, be useful, and appear enthusiastic before the retreat so that he could relax and enjoy himself without incurring any suspicion. Best to bank the dutifulness early on.

He’d received a notice from Uriel while he was traveling (a dove flew up to him and a letter materialized in its grip: a bit overwrought, all things considered) that Heaven was making the planning committee Archangels-only this time around. Ah, well. However, the note continued, Heaven would welcome Aziraphale’s input if he was willing to consult briefly. How was Monday?

Before ascending to Heaven, Aziraphale put away his toaster and emptied his rubbish bin. Then, just for good measure, and with a mental apology to Crowley, he lit a nutmeg-and-vanilla candle next to the sofa. Demons carry a very particular smell with them,[18] and it seemed prudent to avoid mixing any infernal aromas with the ethereal summoning.

Aziraphale knelt on the floor with reverence, humility, and only minimal cracking from his knees. Putting his hands together and closing his eyes, he said a short prayer.

_Lord preserve me, and take me unto thy Archangel’s office, that I may not be late for my 9 ‘o clock meeting. Amen._

There was a brilliant light, and a feeling like the sudden absence of all feeling. Aziraphale ascended.

When the atoms that usually occupied their days being Aziraphale had got over the metaphysical shock, they found themselves whistling skyward in a kind of languid reverse freefall. It was rather like an exceptionally aerodynamic elevator, Aziraphale mused, and then the thought stuck and began to manifest. Instead of a glittering stream of quintessence and some very disoriented tagalong molecules, the angel found himself once again human-shaped, and riding serenely in a velvet-upholstered elevator.

The world’s softest _ding_ chimed from the elevator and Aziraphale stepped forward into Heaven. 

Goodness, but it was _glossy_. If he’d been corporeal, he would have been terribly worried about scuffing the mirror-like floors. But as it was, Aziraphale was no more than a shimmering semblance, and the floors remained unblemished by his angelic footfalls.

Aziraphale had absolutely no idea where Gabriel’s office was, but he was confident that he would find it if he simply walked forward while thinking about it. Heaven was convenient like that.[19]

Gabriel had taken about as much personal interest in the design of his office as he had in the birth of Jesus Christ. The room set aside for Aziraphale’s 9 o’ clock was notably neat and clean even for a place where stray objects could not truly exist and being messy was, strictly speaking, metaphysically impossible. There was not, of course, actually a desk and a carafe of purified water and a suite of motivational posters on the walls, but nonetheless one had the strong impression that the room contained all of these things. 

There was a copy of Fra Angelico’s _The Annunciation_ on one wall next to a calendar featuring alpine forests from around the world and a photograph of about three dozen angels with the words “AIM HIGHER” emblazoned across the top. Aziraphale recognized the photo as originating from a Christmas party in the mid-1980s; he was in the back smiling feebly (and, if he recalled correctly, rather hungover from drinking some horrifically strong cranberry punch with Crowley all night long on Christmas Eve). On the preternaturally organized desk there was a set of perfectly sharpened pencils for the transcription of divine Words and a votive candle that had been burning since just before the Fall of Rome. There was also a picture frame with an engraving of angels throwing flailing, reptilian creatures into Hell, which bore the caption IF YOU’RE NOT WINNING, YOU’RE LOSING. Aziraphale knew from experience that Gabriel considered this statement extremely deep.

The Archangel himself was flipping through what appeared to be a photo album and frowning slightly. There was a single line between his eyebrows that was as straight and unbending as his moral principles.

Aziraphale gave the introductory cough he had rehearsed that morning before an audience of toast and marmalade.

“Hey kiddo, grab a seat,” Gabriel said, the frown vanishing from his face. He gestured to the photo album. “I’ve been trying to remember the names of some of these demons before the retreat.”

Aziraphale, dropping into the chair across from Gabriel, gave a firm nod. “Quite right, it wouldn’t do to be impolite.”

‘Well, it ‘wouldn’t do’ to be out-strategized by the forces of evil, either. Just like the saying goes, got to keep our angels close and our demons closer, right?”

“Oh, yes, I strive to do so,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, not too close.”

“Pop quiz,” Gabriel said, hiding the photo album against his chest. “Who’s the demon with the slime covering half his face?”

Aziraphale frowned in attempted recollection. “You know, it’s frightful how little that narrows things down.”

Gabriel let out a bark of laughter and laid the album down on his desk. “You got that right. Bunch of freaks. I mean I guess this one’s sort of normal-looking. The redhead.” Gabriel bent forward to read the caption on the photo as Aziraphale’s heart beat into his ears with all the subtlety of an erupting volcano.

“‘Crowley the serpent.’ I think I remember this guy, isn’t he the one that some Marquis of Hell dared to drink a bottle of communion wine? Threw up blood all over part of the Bayeux Tapestry?”[20]

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, trying not to recall the aftermath of that scene, in which he had fed Crowley ice chips for several hours and graciously ignored his crying and muttering about lurid revenge schemes. 

“Huh,” Gabriel said. “Could have sworn it was.”

“Did you want to talk about the upcoming retreat?” Aziraphale asked, with the outward smile of someone immensely enjoying himself and the inward panic of someone midway through an improvised class presentation.

“You’ve got it. Aziraphale, if I can ask a little favor, I’d like you to be on your guard when we’re down there. I need our agents who have a little more”—Gabriel gave an ambiguous hand gesture—”practical experience to make sure each angel gets back to Heaven in one piece. Just because the Adversaries will be without powers doesn’t mean they won’t start a fight.”

“Oh, I do hope not. I don’t relish the idea of fighting, and I’m frightfully out of practice.” Aziraphale gave a tiny shudder. “Now if you wanted to talk about refreshments—”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, kiddo.” Gabriel looked faintly amused. “I know somewhere under all that puff pastry is an angel who can fight. I always thought you had a firm grasp of a demon’s weak points.”

Aziraphale hastily denied possession of a grasp, firm or otherwise, upon any demonic points.

Gabriel leaned over his spotless desk. 

"Aziraphale, speaking angel to angel, I need you to keep an eye out for our people. Some of them haven't seen a demon in a hundred years or more. They don't understand the adversary." He pointed at Aziraphale with an encouraging fountain pen. "But you know how the enemy thinks, you have demons absolutely _pinned down._ "

The image that Gabriel's words conjured in Aziraphale’s head was one of 'combat with the enemy' only in the most expansive sense. 

"Quite. Absolutely, er, pinned," he said weakly.

In defiance of every law of physics and metaphysics, the gleaming cell phone on the desk rang. Gabriel picked it up.

“Gotta love the signal here. Immaculate reception,” he said. “Michael, hey, got Aziraphale in my office. Mhm. Yep.” He hung up. “Now, where were we?”

“Refreshments?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. He could barely recall where Gabriel’s speech had been going, being rather preoccupied with not thinking about where his own mind had wandered.

“Oh, right, the forces of evil. Well, we’ve got that pretty well covered. Let’s talk about some logistics. How many hours do humans need to sleep, again?”

It is not customary for angels to give prayers of thanks for changes in conversational topics, however frequent such practice may be among humans, but the Almighty received one such that morning, and it was a very heartfelt prayer indeed.

Footnotes

5 Crowley’s watch was keeping him informed of how time was passing up on Earth. The only clock in the break room had warped, then drooped, and finally begun to puddle on the floor under the unrelenting boredom of eternity in Hell. That clock was partially responsible for Crowley’s dislike of Salvador Dali (a responsibility it shared with slighted feelings from not receiving an invitation to one of Dali’s opulent parties and a strong personal preference for Rene Magritte).  [ return to text ]

6 You know the one.  [ return to text ]

7 Some of the shoddiness can be explained by quick and cheap construction. Heaven and Hell both rushed to make infrastructure adjustments in the wake of the population explosion of the 20th Century. There is no lack of space in either afterlife, but infinitude in and of itself does not automatically include an infinite number of furnished living spaces.

Heaven’s leadership had drawn up plans for renovation that were widely considered an architectural triumph. Some of the more traditionally-minded angels grumbled that the new sections had lost a bit of the old crystal-spire charm, but overall Heaven’s additions were praised as desirable neighborhoods to live in. The view of the entirety of physical existence from the balconies was simply divine.

Hell, on the other hand, had copied the plans for a single American strip mall ad infinitum and rapidly expanded across the infernal plains in drywall and linoleum. The new development was hideous, but then again, no one writes about the natural beauty of Hell, and it’s never managed to sustain a profitable tourism industry.  [ return to text ]

8 Recently a group of war criminals, kidnappers, and people who were rude to their landscaping staff had started a walking club around the Seventh Circle of Hell, which was a bit more scenic than the rest if you took care to mind the sudden bursts of flame that tended to manifest on the stairways. Crowley, who had only dropped into the Seventh Circle once in the last century for a regrettable rave, was not aware of this.  [ return to text ]

9 Although angels don’t drink coffee or tea, Gabriel had no fewer than six coffee mugs he rotated on and off of his desk. Three of them were Christmas presents from Aziraphale, who struggled to think of gifts for people who didn’t drink wine and didn’t enjoy shortbread, peppermint bark, or candied citrus peels.  [ return to text ]

10 The Archangels and the Dark Council were both anticipating more than usual difficulty finding an appropriate place to hold the traditional joint company retreat. Since the last one, skepticism had increased, cameras had been invented, and humans had developed an irritating habit of walking around with high-quality recording devices in their pockets at all times. It was more difficult to maintain a low profile than it had been in the days of yore, or even in the days of flip phones. On the other hand, the last time they had held their corporate getaway, business retreats and all the attendant hotel deals and entertainment packages hadn’t been invented yet, so there were some notable tradeoffs to be reckoned with.  [ return to text ]

11 “I only wanted to see Penn and Teller’s show,” Aziraphale insisted. “That’s a perfectly adequate reason to visit Las Vegas. I have no interest in whatever hellish scheme you’re plotting, and I’m not here to thwart you. Our meeting here was purely coincidental.”

“I keep telling you, this isn’t a business trip, there’s no hellish scheme. Can’t a demon try the luck of the devil now and then without the devil telling him to? Really, if one of us is acting suspicious here, it’s Heaven’s darling in Sin City.”

“I don’t believe you,” Aziraphale sniffed, ignoring the last part. “You’re up to something.”

“Never said I wasn’t up to something,” Crowley said. “If you’re so anxious to play guardian angel, you can come visit me. I’ve got the best room in the Bellagio.”

The rest of this trip, as the marketing slogan of thirty years later would say, will remain in Vegas.  [ return to text ]

12 Every retreat had its own incident file. Some were quite slim and others looked like the love children of Proust’s collected works and the Encyclopedia Britannica. Venice had an entire cabinet, owing to an incident involving the consecration of canal water and unwise quantities of limoncello.  [ return to text ]

13 Such dizziness was an occupational hazard of being a creature of Heaven. If Aziraphale walked along the high street on Valentine’s Day the effect was akin to something psychedelic. Not that Aziraphale would know about psychedelics. Well, not much.  [ return to text ]

14 He had not, in fact, eaten recently. Crowley would sometimes nibble on bits of food with Aziraphale, but he maintained a snakelike routine that involved not eating for months at a time. When he became hungry again, he would call in for delivery from one of his three favorite restaurants under no fewer than four assumed names, order one of everything on the menu, eat it all in less than an hour, and sleep for two days afterward.

Little did Crowley know there was a Youtube video of a teenager attempting a similar feat: “EXTREME MUKBANG: CAN I EAT EVERYTHING ON THE MENU IN ONE HOUR?” It was followed by another video “MY GIRLFRIEND VISITS ME IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM (I LOST SUBSCRIBERS?!)”  [ return to text ]

15 Hell had decided to double down on the superstition surrounding Friday the 13th by making that infamous date the official payday of all its salaried staff. They did not deviate from this unorthodox schedule no matter how much time passed between Fridays the 13th. It was thought that newly compensated demons would be effective at wreaking more havoc than usual. Perhaps this was true—the infernal accounting department had yet to commission a study on the effects— but in the case of one particular demon who had long maintained a steady if modest stream of income from a variety of internet scams, it was more of a pleasant surprise than a prerequisite for demonic mischief. For Crowley, the intended havoc of payday usually manifested in hideously expensive clothes, exotic succulents, and treating an angel to lunch.  [ return to text ]

16 “Really, I almost feel bad for these dreadful people,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, all the poor things ever do is look pretty and be incredibly annoying.”

“Hey watch it there,” Crowley said with mock indignation. “Don’t be so dismissive of my career goals.” [ return to text ]

17 Aziraphale had a halo, but it was one of those angelic attributes he kept in a kind of celestial storage closet except on very formal occasions, and it was likely long overdue for a celestial dry-cleaning. Crowley had a few thoughts on Aziraphale’s halo, some sincere and some insincere. Insincerely, he insisted that it was tacky, going so far as to rank it worse than the cardigan whose color he had once described to Aziraphale as Self-Hating Porridge. Sincerely, the thoughts inspired in Crowley by Aziraphale’s halo and the ethereal glow it cast on his face were unsuitable for polite company, and indecorous even by the standards of Hell’s Second Circle.  [ return to text ]

18 It’s like the sharp, headache-inducing smell of the cleaning products aisle in a big box store, and not unlike chlorine bleach. For most demons, lackluster hygiene means the smell of cleaning agents tends to be subsumed by the stench of general uncleanliness, an irony that is lost on the vast majority of the infernal horde. Like bleach and drain cleaner and scouring powder, the aroma of demons tends to make mortal eyes water and throats prickle. Aziraphale had grown fond of the harsh chemical scent in spite of himself over the years, though in the case of Crowley it was usually masked by cologne, car wax, and the aftereffects of lying in orange-blossom infused bathwater for hours drinking Malbec and reading privacy policy agreements for demonic inspiration. [ return to text ]

19 Hell, conversely, was full of rooms that you could only access if you were not thinking about them at all. It was extraordinarily inconvenient for most demons, who tend to be what business school types call “task-oriented” to a fault. Crowley, whose mind was usually occupied replaying episodes of either television or his own failures, had little trouble finding the most deviously hidden meeting rooms in Hell. His reputation for punctuality around the office placed among Crowley’s top ten sources of personal embarrassment.  [ return to text ]

20 "Normally I can tell, you know, if something’s been blessed,” Crowley insisted later. “Morality is horrifically pungent.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale replied. “Your tactfulness continues to astonish, my dear.” [ return to text ]


	3. The Devil Went Down to Florida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell hold orientation sessions, Mary Loquacious is introduced, Aziraphale and Crowley share a smoke break, and the angels and demons check in.

_ Aziraphale _

__

“I just don’t know  _ what  _ I ever did that gave you that impression,” Aziraphale said, looking over his shoulder with an expression so scandalized it seemed to demand smelling salts. “How could you think I was  _ that  _ sort of person?”

“Aziraphale, you don’t know, you might like it!” Crowley bit his lip. “It’s great fun, I’ll show you.”

“Look, I don’t understand why we can’t go on like we always have.” Aziraphale sighed like a film ingenue on the cusp of a jazz standard.

“Admit it, you’re curious, you just need me to talk you into it.” His eyes were incandescent. “Angel, don’t make me beg.” 

Aziraphale’s outrage condensed into a pout. “Well, in my defense the begging is extremely entertaining.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped, “will you just take the blessed mobile phone?”

He held out a phone seemingly chosen for its non-intimidating lack of sleekness. Aziraphale reached forward and took the phone with the kind of squeamish reluctance most people reserve for handling fluids that have forcibly expelled from a human body.

“I will not use this, I hope you know that,” Aziraphale said. 

“We all have our pathetic little hopes and dreams,” Crowley said. It was unclear whether the melancholy in his voice was ironic or genuine. “Let me have mine.”

***

There was a large crowd of angels[21] already sitting nametagged and attentive in the conference room when Aziraphale arrived in Heaven.

He had been prepared to offer an apology for being fewer than five minutes early, but Michael and Sandalphon were nowhere to be seen, and Uriel and Gabriel were engaged in hanging a large poster that read “HAVE CONFIDENCE IN CONFIDENCE”. It was arrayed between its fellows “WHAT WOULD JESUS DELEGATE?” and “SUCCESS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T FAIL”.

“Hey Aziraphale, you like the new posters?” Uriel asked. “Gabriel had them printed especially for this meeting.”

Gabriel turned and beamed at Aziraphale. “What can I say? I like to make our employees happy.”

“Oh, yes, they’re quite nice. I really enjoy the, ah, blue colour of that font,” Aziraphale said, and sat himself in a gleaming chair next to a familiar face.

“Hello Aziraphale!” called Ithuriel. “How’s London? Sell any books lately?”

“Good morning dear,” Aziraphale replied. “Care for a lemon drop?”

“Ooh, you always have the most interesting souvenirs,” Ithuriel exclaimed. Ithuriel was always delighted by whatever Aziraphale brought back from Earth and treated it like a special gift. Aziraphale had never had the heart to tell the poor creature that he simply had lots of junk in his coat pockets.

“Yes, well, Earth is full of nice things to eat, as you’ll get to experience soon. Human cuisine has gotten much more interesting since we were last all there together, although I’m not sure there’s anything edible in America.”

“Aziraphale?” Ithuriel asked. He was concentrating very hard and his mouth was hanging open in a perfect  _ O _ , the kind that begins epic poems of seafaring. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“What does it mean, ‘success is what happens when you don’t fail’?

_ Crowley _

Hell’s conference rooms had no fixed dimensions; by design they were always just a bit too small for however many demons were inside of them trying to hold a meeting. The carpeting was hideous beyond all description, and the temperature rested somewhere around molten iron. A 200-year-old percolator brewed something dark and sludgy and horrific that demons believed was coffee. It was the only refreshment allowed, although Crowley, in times of need, had been known to smuggle in a quadruple ristretto.[22]

Eric weaved his way through the closely packed demons to sit next to Crowley, ducking his head to avoid hitting his earlike tufts of hair on ceiling tiles that had started to sag.

Of course his name was not really Eric. Back when he was still trudging through Hell’s internship program, his supervisors had spitefully called him “The Disposable Demon” based on his ability to create infinite copies of himself. His real name was much longer and more intimidating, but whenever anyone said it aloud, babies were stricken with fever and colic, enormous spiders turned up in the local showers, and nearby surfaces became coated in glitter that all the pine-scented cleaning agents in the world could not scrub off. So, Eric it was.

“Hey Crowley. I mean, uh, Hail Satan or whatever.”

Crowley had been dozing lightly, but he gave up.[23]

Crowley and Eric were not exactly friends, but they had developed a certain rapport after gleefully ranting to each other about Hastur and Ligur in the early 18th century and discovering at the beginning of the 20th that they were the only two demons in Hell who could deal cards tolerably well.

“Hi Eric. Who have they got you corrupting lately?”

“The usual sorts, you know. Politicians, church leaders, people who describe themselves as ‘Twitter famous’ at networking events.”

“You don’t sound that excited.”

Eric shrugged. “There’s a lot of other stuff going on in my life. Things are weird with my girlfriend.”

“Remind me who she is again?” Crowley said. He’d always privately thought Eric had terrible taste in condemned souls.

“Died of tuberculosis, Fourth Circle.”[24]

“Tuberculosis, eh? So she’s been in Hell for a long time then?”

“Crowley, she died of tuberculosis in 2015. There’s more to Earth than England,  _ gosh. _ ”

“Oh, right, yeah. Well, I er, hope that gets better.” 

Eric shook his head, smiling. “You should try having a life sometimes.”

“I’ve got a life! I’ve got so much life. Heaps of life,” Crowley said, crossing his arms and legs at the same time.

“Really? Seems like for the creator of original sin you don’t get much—”

“Oh shut it, Eric.”

There was a screeching sound as Beelzebub walked in, followed by Dagon, who was adjusting the microphone responsible for everyone’s splitting eardrums.

“I told you, it was already on!” Ligur shouted, covering his ears with his grubby gloved fingers. Next to him, Hastur had shrunk into his coat like an enormous, filthy turtle.

Dagon shrugged. “I know it was on, I just like seeing you all flinch.”

“Get a grip, weaklings. We have some policy changes to go over,” Beelzebub announced. The clouds of dust from the enormous book they opened would have sent a workers’ safety inspector into a fit of apoplexy. 

“OK, first off, by order of the Dark Council, and in recognition of a complaint brought forward by several members of the executive staff of the duchal rank”—Beelzebub’s eyes flicked upward to Hastur and Ligur—”all employees are henceforth required to refrain from wearing sunglasses, visors, eyepatches, goggles, pince-nez, monocles, stunner shades, sleep masks, and any other form of occluding eyewear during meetings in Hell.”

Crowley’s stare was pure, choleric bile as he removed his sunglasses and scowled with all his might. His eyes were alight from corner to corner, yellow as the bellies of poisonous creatures it would be unwise to touch.

Hastur and Ligur sniggered into their greasy lapels.

“From the Committee on the Integrity of Evil, we have a report,” Beelzebub motioned, and Dagon wheeled in an enormous scroll the size of a hay bale. “The decision on whether to license a series of Halloween pop-up shops was postponed, and the committee has directed staff to provide a series of recommendations on the previous series of recommendations.” The scroll was wheeled out again.

“And on that note, I’d like to recognize the following demons for their laudable efforts to promote a hostile work environment…”

_ Aziraphale _

After several hearty good mornings spoken with the kind of energy only obtainable from contraband pharmaceuticals and summer camp counselors, the Archangels launched into a presentation about the upcoming retreat that was hardly less chipper. Despite the enthusiasm of the presenters, Aziraphale found his attention flagging, and he would have given a great deal for a cup of tea or some refreshment more substantive than a forgotten lemon drop.

Aziraphale had never understood the point of sleeping, but as Uriel talked about promoting team values, he felt a distinct heaviness behind his eyes. When Sandalphon praised the solutions-oriented cardinal virtue strategy, Aziraphale’s face went slack and his attention plummeted. And when Gabriel made a speech about better understanding the needs of the client base to promote positive outcomes, Aziraphale’s head lolled forward.

“Do you have any clue what they’re talking about?” Ithuriel asked, breaking Aziraphale’s slumber as a gilded curl fell across his eyes.

One of the great virtues of Ithuriel was that he did not talk like a business school seminar threw up on an instruction manual, as many of Heaven’s executive staff tended to do when they got excited. Of course, in Ithuriel’s case, it was mostly thanks to his unfamiliarity with multisyllabic words. Still, Aziraphale was grateful, and even he wasn’t sure why Gabriel was pointing at a labeled octagon as though he’d just rediscovered Creation.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said to Ithuriel.

_ Crowley _

Crowley didn’t have the faintest idea what Dagon was saying about expense reports, only that it was both detailed and threatening. His attention began to drift like a dust speck in the doldrums. Eric started scratching demonic sigils in the hideous carpet with the point of his boot, and even Hastur and Ligur appeared to fidget.

Feeling the onset of stupor, Crowley tried to keep himself awake and entertained by tying his tongue into a globe knot. Up, around, over, through, down, around again—

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “For the third time, did you turn in the draft for your presentation on counter-thwarting angels? It’s in three days.”

It is much more difficult to untie knots than it is to make them in the first place. Crowley’s startled attempt only ended up pulling his tongue tighter.[25]

“Crowley?”

“Mhm, cnproblydtht.”

“What?”

“Hngnscnd.” Crowley threw his head back and jerked his chin forward. There was a faintly obscene slurping sound that lasted about fifteen seconds and then he answered, “Yeah, I can probably do that.”

“Probably isn’t good enough."

‘Most definitely, then.”

_ Aziraphale _

“Most definitely,” Aziraphale agreed. “It would be my pleasure to present on the best methods of thwarting evil. I believe I gave you my draft last week?”

“Right-o. And remember, team, if a demon gives you trouble, Aziraphale and Ithuriel have agreed to be extra help on security, so don’t hesitate to look to them for assistance.”

Aziraphale shuffled in his seat with as little discomfort as he could manage. Ithuriel, who could hardly tell a demon from a dachshund, gave a huge smile worthy of versification by chivalric balladiers.

“Well, that wraps up our announcements,” Gabriel boomed cheerfully. “Now, before we sign the contracts and power down, let’s get the welcome kits distributed.”

Sandalphon snapped his fingers and a large box materialized and stripped off its own tape.

The angels came forward to collect what turned out to be gift bags. Aziraphale peered into the tissue paper. There was a water bottle that said “DON’T FORGET IT OR YOU’LL REGRET IT” (“No one is discorporating because they forgot to drink water this year, got it?” Michael warned). There was a small book called  _ The Pocket Guide to Physical Existence. _ There was a travel-sized toothbrush. And there was a t-shirt in canary yellow with swirling purple text not unlike the font for the Coca-Cola logo that read “ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS”.

Aziraphale privately resolved to sell off every book he had ever collected before he let Crowley see him wearing that shirt.

“Alright, it’s time to sign off on celestial powers and get in place for materialization,” Uriel announced. “Please make an orderly queue, and be sure to read the terms before you agree.”

And the angels, being orderly, commandment-abiding sorts, queued up and read all the fine print.

_ Crowley  _

“And finally, I would like to draw your attention to the emendation on page eight thousand and fifty,” Beelzebub said.

Crowley was asleep, although his eyes were still open, since he had forgotten that he had eyelids. He was having a rather pleasant dream.[26]

Eric gave him a sharp poke.

“Last announcement,” he whispered to the awakened Crowley.

“Although our records department cannot help but be impressed at some of our staff’s personal devotion to the cardinal sin of vanity, it is my duty to inform you that we can no longer accept quarterly reports in the form of Instagram posts,” Beelzebub said, glowering into the assembly of demons. 

Crowley gave the same groan he’d emitted when Aziraphale had asked him if the New York Dolls were some kind of toy franchise.

“Respectfully, we request that ‘@deedsoftheday’ resubmit their third quarter report via fax,” Beelzebub finished in a voice as dead as Hell’s residents.

“Everyone please line up for materialization and take care to read the terms before you agree,” Dagon called.

And the demons, being disorderly, commandment-defying sorts, shoved and elbowed each other to get to the front and ignored the fine print. 

_ Aziraphale _

The sun was very bright and the air was very thick. A bolt of lightning that had brought them down from Heaven retreated, crackling, into the vaulted sky. When Aziraphale materialized, the first thing that he saw was a slit-pupiled reptilian eye.

It belonged to an enormous iguana, who seemed displeased to find so many newly-incorporated angels in her corner of the city park. 

There were several more large iguanas in the vicinity, most of them sitting on picnic tables. They were watching a manmade pond full of egrets with the same lackadaisical attitude of people who have finished the program for which they turned on the television, but are too lazy to turn it off when the adverts begin telling them to buy life insurance and resealable plastic bags. 

The angels around the lagoon in the park were carrying luggage, and briefcases, and a good deal more flesh than most of them were used to.

Aziraphale stretched his shoulders, feeling the numb spot where normally his wings fluttered out of sight. He was seated at a picnic table that had been glossily painted fifty years ago and was now mostly decorated by cobwebs and crumbs. To his immense displeasure, he began to recall that when fully human he tended to suffer from hay fever. He was desperately hungry, and he could only hope fervently that Gabriel was not going to make one of any number of terrible incorporation jokes.

_ Who ever heard of an angel with hay fever?  _ he thought, annoyed. The iguana he’d appeared next to flicked her tongue in rebuke at him, but his life had consisted of too many episodes of perturbing a particular reptile to pay this much mind.

“Welcome to Heaven, incorporated,” Gabriel boomed into the humidity. Aziraphale groaned to himself as Sandalphon laughed and Uriel made a finger-guns gesture.

Ithuriel, who had materialized ankle-deep in the lagoon, stared at Gabriel with his habitual incomprehension.

“You’re probably all very hungry,” Michael said, unzipping her backpack. “You’ll be pleased to know we have adequate provisions.”

‘Adequate provisions’ was a phrase that lowered Aziraphale’s expectations of a meal as surely as ‘Michelin-starred’ raised them. Sure enough, the provisions turned out to be protein bars, and they didn’t even have the grace to be chocolate-chip-flavored.

Ithuriel tore the foil off his protein bar with nigh-religious rapture.

“I’ve never eaten a rectangle before!” he exclaimed in delight. “These are even better than those spheres Aziraphale had.”

Gabriel shot Aziraphale a puzzled, slightly concerned look out of the corner of his eyes, but only cleared his throat and continued, “OK, team, the vans are parked over to the right, let’s get moving.”

Aziraphale was feeling less than angelic as he climbed into a large minivan with only a protein bar in his stomach. He felt a sudden pang of jealousy, imagining that Hell was probably partaking in a gluttonous breakfast.

_ Crowley _

The several megapacks of cinnamon rolls Dagon purchased at the 7/11 averaged out to be about one-quarter of a cinnamon roll per demon. Since employees were allowed to make discretionary purchases, most of them left with additional items. Hastur and Ligur split a liter of Mountain Dew and a packet of M&Ms. Beelzebub selected a hot dog that looked like it had begun grilling forty years ago. Crowley purchased a cup of black coffee, a cyan-colored slurpee, and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes.

They had teleported outside the convenience store under the sound theory that a bunch of demons materializing in the parking lot of a 7/11 was unlikely to be the strangest or most worrying thing happening there.[27] For a few minutes it was quiet as the assembled demons opened cellophane packages and devoured their food.

It was extremely hot and the air smelled like urine and diesel exhaust, but that was a marked improvement over Hell. The demons had tried to conform to the stated dress code of “Earth casual,” but the results were mixed. If he’d been less distracted by being suddenly biological again, Crowley would have been amused.

As it was, he was fairly distracted. Crowley had always shut off the functions of his human body that he found irritating with the same thoughtless comprehensiveness of a teenager uninstalling default software on a new mobile phone. He didn’t normally breathe when he was asleep, his fingernails never grew of their own accord, and he had once completely forgotten about the existence of earwax for decades until he saw a display of q-tips at the supermarket. 

“Good to be back on your home turf, huh?” Eric asked.

“What the Heaven kind of outfit is that, Eric? You look like a community theater lighting designer went through a paper shredder. I mean what is this stupid scarf thing?”

Eric frowned over his liter of soda. “Crowley, you lost the ability to make fun of anyone’s scarf in the 12th Century.”

“He’s right, you know. Crowley, get in the van, you’re driving,” Dagon said, tossing a key fob. She was wearing a grey tracksuit and bejeweled flip flops. It was one of the more successful attempts at a human wardrobe, Crowley thought while looking around. “The hotel is still half an hour away.”

Crowley smiled despite himself. “Not if I’m driving it isn’t.”

_ Aziraphale _

Heaven’s contingent was half an hour from their destination when Gabriel pulled over outside a neat stucco two-story with a lawn full of chintzy ornaments and capsized tricycles.

“Look! Angels!” Gabriel pointed through the windshield.

Several of the statues had wings and were carrying green or blue or pink orbs of indifferent crystal.

Uriel snapped a picture with her phone. Aziraphale silently prayed she was not going to tag everyone in the car and add “hashtag blessed,” because Crowley would never let him hear the end of it.

“Those aren’t angels, actually,” Aziraphale said from the backseat. “They’re fairies, or sprites, or something. Possibly upstart elves.”

Gabriel turned to look at him, lifting the brim of his pastel baseball cap slightly as he did so. 

“Sure look like angels to me, sunshine.”

“Angels have feathers. Those statuettes have—whatever the wings of dragonflies and butterflies are made of.” He used to know the word, and it bothered him that he’d forgotten it, however little he knew Gabriel and the others cared for entomological niceties.

“Oh, perfect, look what I found,” Sandalphon announced, holding a CD that had fallen under one of the seats. “Who’s up for a sing-a-long to  _ The Sound of Music? _ ”

As the angels broke into “I Must Have Done Something Good,” Aziraphale came to the conclusion that he must have done something very bad indeed.

  
  


_ Mary _

Sometimes Mary Loquacious felt like her life was one very long stand-up routine that had taken all of its jokes just a bit too far.

First there was the bit about the Satanists.

She had been raised by a loving Catholic mother and a loving Baptist father and a loving atheist au pair, and all these early religious and irreligious influences had inspired a tremendous number of questions about the world. It was Mary’s own imagination and a sublimated teenage rebellion that had inspired a persistent disdain for all of the conventional answers.

Looking back on the lessons her mother and father and au pair had taught her, most of them were actually quite pragmatic in nature: how to heal an ailing lawn mower or a sickly car, how to twist box braids without getting distracted from  _ Jeopardy, _ how to write an email with the proper number of exclamation points for every social situation. But on top of all these lessons was the firm and abiding injunction to Hear Everyone Out Before Making Up Your Mind About Their Ideas. This cherished principle[28] made decision-making in the Loquacious household a long and exhausting process but also made Mary unusually compassionate and open-minded.

So when two Bible-thumpers appeared at the door of Mary’s dilapidated apartment, she engaged them in a pleasant chat and brought them cups of sweet tea and a plate of sharp cheddar and crackers. Only they weren’t Bible thumpers.

In fact, the books they were carrying, if thumped, would have probably thumped back.

There were many additional cups of tea and plates of crackers, many long and winding conversations, and discussions of Good and Evil that always seemed to come back to how Evil was suffering from a pretty serious PR deficiency. Mary listened with concern, then interest, then burning curiosity.

Then one ordinary Wednesday evening, she summoned a demon in the moonlight.[29] What’s a little pentacle between friends?

Life in the Satanist cult was colorful and exciting and a lot better than the local club scene as far as dating prospects went, but five years later Mary left, citing philosophical differences with her co-cultists. She was also unhappy that her whole house smelled like a poorly-regulated chemical plant, and was running through air freshener at a worrisome rate.

Finding herself a twenty-six-year-old apostate, she moved on to hostessing at a hotel bar, and reassured Raymond at the local Bed Bath and Beyond that she had not died just because she’d failed to pick up her weekly gross of vanilla and pumpkin spice scented candles.

Mary was chatty, and she could resuscitate a conversation long after it had entered cardiac arrest and ceased its higher brain functions. She was eager, but willing to listen to the most long-winded of rants and the most detailed of retellings. She was clever, but not above inane speculations and idiotic jokes.

These were valuable talents, and Mary found herself climbing the ranks of the hotel, getting a hospitality management degree at night school, and eventually becoming the resort manager for  _ The Empyrean: A Marriott Property. _

Surprisingly, or perhaps not very surprisingly at all, running a resort required many of the same skills as successful Satanism did. Demons and jetlagged business retreat attendees, it turns out, share a lot of common attributes. For a start, both groups tend to leave an absolute wreck for the housekeepers. 

When the staff at the Empyrean received a very odd letter with neat and nigh-unreadable handwriting and an unusual number of grease stains, it was escalated to Mary, who felt an odd prickle at the back of her neck she hadn’t experienced since the good old days of chalk circles and chanting. The letter had some unusual requests from two companies who requested to book six floors of the hotel for two weeks. There was no email address listed on the letter,[30] but there was a phone number, and an indication that the budget for this particular corporate retreat was nearly unlimited.

Mary made a call. There was a dial tone, and then a hold message as orderly and soothing as raked sand in a zen garden.

_ Your prayer is important to us. Please remain on the line. _

_ Aziraphale _

Aziraphale had intended to leave the angels in something of a huff. Just a little huff: not piqued enough to be mistaken for a snit, and well short of a state of dudgeon. He was mightily annoyed at Gabriel, and it was spilling over into uncharitable thoughts about the late Rodgers and Hammerstein. But of course he was at work, and one did well to moderate one’s huffiness.

His huff was dashed when he almost tripped over a scampering gecko.

“Careful there Aziraphale!” Gabriel shouted over Sandalphon’s laughs. “Don’t let a little reptile knock you off your feet.”

_ I fear it might be too late for that, _ Aziraphale thought, as an SUV swerved across two parking spots and Crowley slipped from the vehicle along with a cavalcade of demons. Something warm inside Aziraphale began to flutter, and then to thrum alarmingly. An effect of the muggy air, probably. He and Crowley had agreed not to acknowledge each other in front of their respective workforces, so it was only natural that Crowley gave him no wave, no smile, no recognition whatsoever.

Pity it made him feel so vexed.

The rooms at the Empyrean were still being refilled with towels and miniature water bottles, so after dropping off their bags the angels began to wander. It was cool and pleasant in the lobby, all sea motifs and silver. Not too corporate. Ithuriel dozed against a planter in the atrium, serene and beautiful beneath the plastic leaves. Uriel and Michael approached a vending machine with the bewilderment of first-time backpackers parsing a bus schedule in a foreign alphabet. Aziraphale left.

The bleached stucco and elaborate columns of the hotel made it look as though the whole edifice was decorated in buttercream. Or perhaps Aziraphale was just hungry. He had expected the plants outside to look more exotic, and the people to look more gauche; he had never been to Florida before, but he knew there was a theme park ride based on Winnie the Pooh somewhere, and this fact rankled him enough to give up the entire state as hopelessly tacky.

*** 

“Cigarette?” Crowley asked, leaning on the hotel wall with a nonchalance that was not only studied, but thoroughly prepared to sit its exams.

“I feel obliged to remind you that as we’re human right now, this can and will be damaging to your health,” Aziraphale said, smiling ruefully.

“Oh shut it, angel. You think I don’t know how many tobacco lobbyists we’ve got down there? C’mon,” said Crowley. “Do you want a smoke or not?”

“Please,” Aziraphale groaned, and accepted the cigarette from Crowley. He held it expectantly, waiting for Crowley to snap sparks. 

“Ah, not like that, remember? We’ve gone analog,” Crowley said, producing a lighter.

“What a nightmare.” Aziraphale held his cigarette out to Crowley and looked away as though he couldn’t bear to watch. 

Cigarette lit, Aziraphale stepped ostentatiously to station himself in the gravel patch marked DESIGNATED SMOKING AREA. Crowley, who was just a hair’s breadth out of bounds, took a step further into the prohibited zone. They were quiet for a minute as odd bits of music and the white noise of a distant highway tangled in the Floridian humidity. 

“I suppose I ought to be more charitable,” Aziraphale remarked. “One must love all God’s creatures, even the American tourists.” A plume of smoke rose from his lips into the air like something slithering into oblivion.

“On a scale of Knossos to Venice, how bad do you reckon this’ll be?” Crowley asked.

“Oh goodness, I couldn’t tell,” Aziraphale said. “So much has changed in three hundred years. Last time we had one of these, humans were still performing surgery with only grain alcohol and gritted teeth for anaesthesia.”

“Aziraphale,  _ please, _ don’t remind me,” Crowley winced. “I swear, you angels are more morbid than demons will ever be.”

“Sorry dear. I suppose I have a vague hope that things will be a bit calmer this round, now that the world has invented joint security deposits,” Aziraphale tapped his cigarette with a blunt fingertip. 

“Too bad for you it hasn’t invented better allergy medicine,” Crowley said, looking casually in the other direction. 

Aziraphale scrunched his nose, expelling smoke from his nostrils. “I could have sworn I filled out a request form to have this corporation’s histamine reactions fixed.” 

“Think I’m finally warming up from the post-Hell chill,” Crowley said, wriggling to divest himself of his jacket. The layer underneath was silky and covered in embroidered snakes. There was a large patch of visible skin: Crowley’s devotion to minimalism was nowhere more strictly adhered to than in his practice of buttoning shirts.

Which reminded Aziraphale of another inconvenient consequence of being fully human and equipped with a fully functional endocrine system again.

“Hey, you alright? You’ve got a weird look on your face, did you swallow a mosquito?” Crowley asked.

“Got to be the pollen,” Aziraphale muttered. “Always thought that was shoddy work, I was surprised no one got demoted for that.”

They lapsed into silence as cicadas began to sing and a nearby cafe started to play Latin pop hits. Crowley ground his cigarette on the asphalt and pulled a bottle he’d purchased from the hotel cafe out of his discarded jacket. 

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Pomegranate blueberry kombucha,” Crowley with pride.[31] “According to the label it’s good for your intestines and it lines up your chakras in a nice little rainbow.”

Aziraphale looked disdainfully over his nose as only an Englishman on holiday can. “What a horrid concoction.”

“Watch it now, I paid handsomely for the privilege of drinking this horrid concoction.”

“Well it’s hardly the first time you spent a ludicrous amount of money on something terrible.”

Crowley waved an oh-shut-up-angel hand at Aziraphale as he took a sip of the pomegranate-blueberry drink. He hadn’t expected it to be fizzy and it made him cough a little. Aziraphale indulged him by not looking too pleased. 

The cafe across the street switched briefly to reggae as Aziraphale finished his cigarette and Crowley pretended to enjoy lightly fermented blueberries.

“What is it you’re thinking about?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, who was frowning thoughtfully at nothing in particular.

“Just stupid office politics from the last retreat. Sometimes I’m still ticked I didn’t get any credit for inventing limericks.”

“But you didn’t invent limericks, dear.”

“Lucky for me demons aren’t terribly keen on historical accuracy,” Crowley said. “I thought for sure limericks would be a success down there. I mean, think about it, a whole  _ genre of poetry” _ —he seemed to say this directly through the bridge of his nose—”where the goal is to think of the dirtiest thing you can rhyme with the name of your hometown.”

“That is  _ not _ the point of limericks.”

“OK, you’re right, sometimes it’s someone else’s hometown.”

“They’re a form of creativity!” Aziraphale insisted.

Crowley snorted into his overpriced drink. “ _ Creativity  _ is hardly an obstacle to indecency, angel. If anything I’d say it’s an accelerant.”

Aziraphale, sensing that a counterargument to this point would make one or both of them embarrassed, contented himself with a reproving frown.

“Well no point arguing, anyway, whole thing got rejected as dilatory and frivolous.” Crowley shook his head and the reflection from his sunglasses swooped across the pavement. "Hell’s got no respect for the incremental. But it’s the little sins that are most habit-forming, wouldn’t you agree?"

"If you say so. I can hardly speak from personal experience. Angels don’t sin." Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley spat out a whole dollar's worth of kombucha. "You can't be serious."

"I am perfectly serious."

"You just say that because no one's keeping track," Crowley said. "Look, I'd refute this with examples but I'm not sure whether you want _ lifetime highlights  _ or more of a  _ weekly review. _ "

"You're impossible." Aziraphale straightened his necktie with an air equally murderous and fastidious, like someone brewing poisoned tea designed to dispatch the sipper and spare the porcelain.

"What about Wales, 1598?" Crowley asked.

"Justified by circumstances."

"OK, then, Vienna, 1901?"

Aziraphale shifted. "I had a cold that week."

"You had a lot more than a cold that week," Crowley muttered. "C'mon, America, 1975?"

Aziraphale's face flushed and he became fascinated by his pinky ring.

"I hate to break it to you, angel, but it takes two to—"

"I thought we agreed that was apocryphal," Aziraphale whispered through his teeth.

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned at an even more precarious angle against the wall.

"Is that what they’re calling it these days?"

"Oh be quiet, Crowley, this isn't the time." Aziraphale took several definitive breaths. "I suppose I should see if Heaven's checking in yet."

"Hey, when you go, text me!" Crowley held his phone aloft, suddenly earnest.

"I am not going to  _ text you, _ " Aziraphale said, as though Crowley had suggested some unspeakable act that resided at the intersection of intimate and outrageous. 

“I’ll be sharing a room, you know, you can’t call it or you might end up on the phone with some random demon.”

Aziraphale raised a pale and insinuating eyebrow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

Crowley tried to say something clever and derisive in response, but instead he made a noise like multiple consonants were having a highway accident in the base of his throat.

Aziraphale was several steps away before he turned back and said, "I'll see you after dinner, you incorrigible fiend."

***

Inside the lobby of the Empyrean, pink marble pillars held the ceiling aloft as angels lined up and demons seethed atop the sparkling tile. Michael and Dagon were speaking to the concierge and relaying keycards to their respective teams. Around the fountain, Hastur and Ligur were slouched together, scaring away children and their pennies and wishes. Aziraphale found Gabriel arguing with Uriel about whether the cherubs in the fountain’s statuary were cupids or just very lumpy-looking angels.

“They’ve got hearts on the end of the arrows, that’s cupids,” Uriel was pointing out. “I don’t think it’s going to work for a photo.”

“Might be able to edit those out in the newsletter,” Gabriel mused. “Hey here’s Aziraphale—let’s get moving, sundrop, check-in started ten minutes ago.”

“Terribly sorry, I was just, ah, refilling my water bottle,” Aziraphale said, grasping for some approved activity.

“Oh, excellent idea,” Gabriel concurred. “Well as far as I know you haven’t missed your room assignment, you can ask Michael.”[32]

Aziraphale nodded and moved to the front desk, taking a detour to poke Ithuriel awake from his sleeping place under the planter.

“Is this—are we back in Heaven already?” Ithuriel asked, stretching his arms with an athletic grace worthy of preservation in bronze. “There’s marble and angels in a fountain.”

“Those are cupids,” Aziraphale said. “Do get up dear and let’s go to the desk, we’re checking in.”

As they walked to the concierge, Aziraphale saw Crowley slither into the lobby and draped himself against a marble column. There was a glint of gold over his sunglasses as he inclined his head ever so slightly towards Aziraphale.

The young man at the front desk, who had a hapless look and square glasses that were too large for him, had come to a pause handing over keys and was flipping through several precarious piles of paperwork. Aziraphale listened with interest to the dispute unfolding.

Michael tapped a finely manicured finger on the desk. “I’m sure we can resolve this quickly. Wouldn’t it be easier to look up our reservations on a computer, Mr...?”

“Pulsifer, Newt Pulsifer. Um, we’ve been having some computer trouble,” Newt said.[33]

“How long have you been having computer trouble? The young lady who was here before was managing fine,” Michael rejoined. Dagon, next to her, gave the concierge a smile that seemed to contain far too many teeth.

“When I came over our main computer said it had to do an immediate system reboot,” Newt stammered. “Then there was a screen that just said ‘I’m sorry.’”

“And?” Dagon asked. “When we booked it was with”—she tapped on a virus-laden pager—”Anathema Device, can she help us?”

“I called her, but she’s teaching vinyasa flow for another thirty minutes,” Newt said flatly. “See, the difficulty is, when you booked here under Gabriel and, uh, Bezzlebubble—”

“—Beelzebub,” Dagon corrected.

“Bless you,” Newt said. “Anyway, you booked as one group and asked to be separated by um, teams. But there's one suite booked that members of each team will have to share."

Out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale saw Crowley jolt to attention from his languid drape as though he'd accidentally sat on a pew. 

As one, Michael and Dagon turned around to the cluster of angels and demons. Gabriel strode to the counter, his linen jacket flung over his suitcase like some heraldic pennant. Beelzebub marched forward, wearing a New York Yankees jersey and a deep scowl.

Newt looked about as pleased to see the executives of Heaven and Hell converging on his desk as a claustrophobic watching the arrival of a rickety elevator.

“What’s the situation here, kiddo?” Gabriel asked, at the same time Beelzebub said, “I want to speak to your manager.”

“Some of you are booked to share a suite, it sleeps six,” Newt said, touching a button on the desk. 

Gabriel and Michael looked at one another and Beelzebub and Dagon exchanged a dead-eyed stare.

“That’s not happening,” Michael and Dagon said at once.

“Company secrets, you know, NDAs, compliance nightmare,” Gabriel said, waving explanatory hands.

“What doezz the computer say?” Beelzebub asked, appealing to the most objective authority.

“Erm, right now it just says ‘you are a failure,’ which I think must be code for a network error because it says that to me a lot,” Newt said, glancing at the screen.

A door opened into the lobby and a tall woman with an unfazed smile came forward.

“I’m Ms. Loquacious, hospitality manager for the  _ Empyrean. _ What seems to be the problem here, loves?”

Her suit was conservative, but she had two enormous earrings shaped like parrots. Mary seemed to exist in a totally different visual paradigm than the one that contained Gabriel, Uriel, and Sandalphon’s prim pastels and Beelzebub and Dagon’s riotously mismatched loungewear. 

There was something at the edges of her smile that suggested the 15% off group discount at the snack bar was more contingent than anticipated. Aziraphale took an immediate liking to her.

“Ms. Loquacious, I believe we spoke on the phone,” Michael said, holding out a hand. Mary took it.

“Truly a blessing to have you all here, Michael,” Mary said. “And you, Beelzebub, having your group here really feels like old times.” After Mary shook Beelzebub’s hand, Newt pushed the bottle of hand sanitizer on the front desk ever so slightly in her direction.

Aziraphale watched as the knot at the front desk griped and gesticulated. He was trying to calculate the immense probability that he and Crowley were not going to end up assigned a room together, for personal satisfaction of an entirely mathematical nature. His algebraic exertions were making him go oddly pink in the face.[34]

Gabriel and Beelzebub broke off from the main group and hissed at one another furtively. Aziraphale only caught two words of their conversation, one of which was “ineffable,” and one of which was unprintable.

“OK team,” Gabriel said, wheeling suddenly and clapping his hands. “Here’s what’s going to happen. As you know, all contracts are routed through the Highest Authority—”

“—and the Lowest,” Beelzebub said.

“—so we cannot change our reservation without the big rubber stamp in the sky. Until another room becomes available, there will be four demons and two angels in the seventh floor suite. Due to the obvious safety concerns, one spot will be taken by an Archangel on rotating security duty.”

“Likewise, Hastur, Ligur, please try to ensure that our two junior staff members return with most of their original limbs,” Beelzebub said. “If it’s not too much fuss.”

“What junior staffers?” Hastur asked, still holding the empty bottle of Mountain Dew.

Dagon looked at a paper. “Eric and Crowley are your seventh-floor suitemates.”

From a glossy pink sofa, Eric looked up from his phone long enough to make an expression like he’d just taken a whiff of Hell’s office fridge.

“Aziraphale, you’ll be the other occupant, and Sandalphon has first night’s security duty,” Gabriel finished.

Sandalphon’s face fell as dramatically as a damned angel taking an unprompted skydiving lesson. Aziraphale tried to keep his heartbeat below the rate of an exercising squirrel.

As Aziraphale slung his bag across his back, Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry Aziraphale, didn’t mean to send you so deep into enemy territory,” he said, in a tone of jaunty commiseration.

Aziraphale was straining hard not to look at the particular piece of enemy territory represented by Crowley’s melodramatic slump.

“Quite alright,” he said. “Happy to, ah, enter the depths therein.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Gabriel said.

In the hubbub of luggage carts and keycard retrieval that ensued, Aziraphale cornered Crowley behind a marble pillar.

“We need to be careful,” Aziraphale whispered. It was not so much quiet as it was dramatically hushed.

“Right, this doesn’t have to be awkward,” Crowley said, presumably to Aziraphale but directed firmly at the carpeting.

“Of course not. Why should it?” Aziraphale said, hitching up his suitcase. “Crowley, you lived in my bookshop for two weeks while the floors were being repainted or the walls were being varnished or whatever it was.”

“Oh, sure enough, almost forgot about that.”

“I certainly haven’t. The first day of your stay you parked yourself in front of my television and watched eleven action films in a row.”

“Perfectly ordinary Wednesday,” Crowley muttered. 

“Well, in any case, no reason this should be at all different,” Aziraphale said.

“You know I’ve been meaning to tell you, they weren’t actually refinishing the floors,” Crowley slunk guiltily along the reception counter. Behind it, Newt was typing furiously on the computer, which was beginning to emit sparks.

“ _ What? _ ” Aziraphale sputtered. “You, you made up a story about home remodeling so you could sit on my sofa and rewatch  _ Bored Identity? _ ” 

“It’s  _ Bourne, _ and also no. I somehow managed to open a portal to Hell when I installed a new printer,” Crowley shrugged.

“Oh that happens to me every time,” Newt interjected.

“Aziraphale!” Sandalphon called. “Give me a hand with the luggage, would you?”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a curt nod and hefted Sandalphon’s enormous suitcase onto his overburdened shoulder.

***

It wasn’t the most tense elevator ride ever undertaken by a mix of angels and demons, but it made the top ten.[35]

Hastur and Ligur had entered first, stood in the center, and refused to budge. Sandalphon had been next, and had insisted on standing directly in front of the Dukes of Hell, facing the back wall of the elevator and taking up most of the entryway. That left Aziraphale, Crowley, and Eric to fill in the spaces around the other three. Eric tried to have a videochat while sitting on his suitcase to make room, Aziraphale was forced to hold Sandalphon’s suitcase above his head to get through to a clear space, and Crowley folded himself into a corner and avoided anything that could be interpreted as eye contact.

Seven interminable floors passed, and then the elevator ejected them into a narrow hallway that smelled like air freshener and recent vacuuming.

The keycard was in Sandalphon’s suitcase. Aziraphale withdrew it and inserted it into the slot after first trying to press it to the outside of the lock. Inside, there was a huge flat television and an enormous L-shaped sofa decorating an attractive suite thoughtlessly accented with chrome and white leather and suffused with a kind of institutional glow. Presumably the bedrooms were behind the two doors present; according to Newt’s directions there were two king-sized beds. Eric flopped onto a plush ottoman, still on Facetime, while Crowley prowled the kitchenette for the minibar.

“Ok, how are we doing this? I’m no good at maths,” Hastur said, looking around at the others while shrugging off his dingy coat and tossing it in a heap on the floor.

“First we are establishing some ground rules,” Sandalphon said. “I suggest the following: no personal possessions in the common room, no lights on after eleven pm, and no fighting.” He wrinkled his nose at Hastur’s coat, which looked like an enormous crumpled tissue after an especially bounteous sneeze. “Whatever the provocation.”

Hastur and Ligur looked at one another, then as an answer Ligur removed his coat and dropped it next to Hastur’s, where it puddled greasily.

Sandalphon started to puff up in anger like a cat taking offense at a moving dust speck.

“So back to the question of how to divide the rooms!” Aziraphale called in a sing-song voice. He was anxious to avoid a scene. In the kitchenette, Crowley unscrewed a miniature bottle of sparkling wine and drank the entire thing in several graceless gulps. 

Eric finally pulled out his headphones and turned over. “There’s two beds, right? One in each room?”

“Obviously the angels will have one room and the demons will have another,” Sandalphon said. 

“That’s not right, there are four of us and a convertible sofa in the lounge. Make Crowley and Eric sleep there,” Ligur said.

Sandalphon bristled. “You can’t expect two angels to stay in a suite in which demons have claimed all the common spaces! The lounge must remain neutral. All you demons have to fit in one room. In fact, I propose we draw both an angelic sigil and a demonic one on the floor of the lounge at night so none of us can use it.”

Aziraphale could already see this plan backfiring in his mind’s neurotic eye. There was a snap as Crowley unscrewed a second mini bottle of sparkling wine and tipped it skyward.

“Fine,” Ligur said. “We can assign spots based on rank.”

“Typical Hell,” Sandalphon said, who looked as though he would very much like to kick Hastur and Ligur’s coats out of the way if he were not afraid of the shame it would bring to his shoes. “All falling in line behind a malevolent dictator.”

“Hey now, that’s not fair.” Crowley was pointing an empty wine bottle accusingly at no one in particular. “Heaven’s a theocrasssy.  _ The _ theocrasssy.”

“Well, technically speaking,” Aziraphale began, “God rarely dips into the administrative operations anymore, so it’s really more of a theocratically-inspired pl—”

“Oh don’t you start with that,” Crowley snapped.

“Hell is a constitutional monarchy,” Eric recited from the sofa.

Crowley scrunched his nose and shook his head a little. “Bad argument, Eric, our constitution’s two paragraphs long and was plagiarized from a bottle of hot sauce.”

“Crowley, don’t talk about politics, you’re going to give everyone indigent digestion,” Hastur said, as Aziraphale tried to disguise an undignified giggle as a moderately dignified cough. “Go move our stuff, would you?”

“And we’re taking the bed,” Ligur added. 

“Of course, Your Graces,” Eric replied, hefting his suitcase and moving to the door. “Dibs on the reclining chair, though.” 

“What am I supposed to do, sleep in the bathtub?” Crowley asked.

***

When Aziraphale and Sandalphon entered their room, Sandalphon was checking his phone for pictures of the other Archangels, who appeared to be gathered in neat pressed pajamas watching  _ It’s a Wonderful Life  _ and carefully cleaning up microwave popcorn kernels. “I hope you can appreciate the protection I’m extending to you, Aziraphale. Slumming it with those awful fiends to stop you getting caught in their demonic clutches."

Aziraphale, who had in fact been contemplating demonic clutches ever since he’d watched Crowley’s long, fine fingers opening the spoils of the minibar, merely gave a noise of indistinct gratitude.

Sandalphon sniffed and grimaced. “Eurgh, this place stinks of sin. Did you get a look at those kitchenette counters? Besmirched, I tell you. Utterly soaked in the gluttonous hunger of a thousand visitors.” 

“Mhm,” said Aziraphale. He was paging through the laminated room service menu trying to see if he could still order a slice of cake.

“I can scarcely conceive of the greed provoked by the rewards membership that dreadful receptionist is promoting beneath us,” Sandalphon breathed, fidgeting with the TV remote, his eyes bulging. “And can you even imagine the countless fornications that have taken place upon these very beds?”

“I’d really rather not,” Aziraphale said brusquely. He was ready to smite someone for a pack of pretzels. “Anything from room service, dear?”

_ Crowley _

“Can’t believe you’re really going to make me sleep in the bathtub,” Crowley grumbled, punching a pillow against the tile.[36]

“Hey, shut up in there,” Hastur bellowed from the bedroom. Crowley didn’t reply, but he stuck out his tongue at the closed door. He resented being yelled at to be quiet while Hastur and Ligur were still audibly speculating about which front desk employee would most easily be swayed towards embezzlement. 

_ Swwssh. _ A water jet burbled to life. Cursing every angel involved in the design of dihydrogen monoxide, Crowley slammed on the nozzle and the jet shut off. Cramped in the dark bathroom with a towel for a blanket, he felt a sudden wave of self-pity coming on, and allowed himself a minute of high-intensity wallowing.

The door clicked open and Crowley instinctively grabbed a small paper-wrapped soap to hurl at the intruder.

“What the fuck Crowley, it’s just me,” Eric said, throwing up a hand to shield his face. “I was gonna give you this extra blanket I found.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Thanks. Sure there’s no room on the reclining chair?” 

“Not for anyone as clingy as you are.” Eric tossed the blanket into the bathtub. 

“Clingy? I’m not clingy,” Crowley protested. Across the front of his face he could still feel the sparkling wine fizzing.

“Every time you fall asleep in one of Dagon’s budget meetings you start winding around your chair like a twist tie,” Eric said flatly.

“I never fall asleep in budget meetings.”

“Yes you do,” Eric insisted. “It’s OK, people just think you really like that chair.”

“I hate that chair.”

Eric sighed. “Go to sleep Crowley, we’re going to have to kick you out to shower soon enough.” The door clicked closed again.

Crowley turned over and over, trying to stop his back from being crunched by tile. He had never longed more acutely for the foldability of his snake spine. 

Crowley wondered if being horrifically squashed in an ensuite bathtub was some kind of ironic punishment for several decades of idle (and lurid, and occasionally hands-on) daydreaming about what sharing a hotel room with Aziraphale would be like. 

It was very dark, with only the dimmest glow from the light on the hairdryer and a faint luminous band of frosted window. Well, Crowley rationalized, letting his thoughts and his right hand drift, if he was going to suffer the punishment, he may as well indulge in just a little bit more of the crime.  


Footnotes

21 The proper term for a group of angels is a host. A group of demons is variously called a legion, a horde, and a health code violation.  [ return to text ]

22 There was an office fridge in Hell, although none of the staff needed to eat or had much desire to. It did not house any lunches in tupperware. Instead the office fridge contained unspeakable horrors, only some of which were in tupperware and most of which were free-roaming.  [ return to text ]

23 One of the most useful properties of sunglasses, Crowley thought, was that you could pretend to be asleep during personal conversations and pretend to be awake during professional ones.  [ return to text ]

24 Dating the damned was a grey area in Hell’s codex of numerous and contradictory workplace rules. Other areas were more well-defined.

“I don’t want to be making this announcement,” Dagon said with a resigned air, “but Inhuman Resources has asked me to remind you all that relationships between members of Hell’s staff conducted for the benefit of reduced work hours and exemption from paperwork are strictly forbidden. For more information please refer to endnote seven hundred and seventy nine in chapter forty-six of the employee manual.”

Dagon looked around the room and her gaze lingered on Crowley.

“Why are you looking at _me_?” Crowley asked, his voice climbing in pitch as though it was trying to make an escape through the ceiling. “I’d sooner shag an _angel_ than take one of you lot out to lunch.”

Dagon rolled her eyes. “OK, calm down Crowley, there’s no need to be hyperbolic.”  [ return to text ]

25 “What do you think kissing feels like?” Aziraphale asked.

It was only a few years after Adam and Eve had satisfied this particular curiosity. Since then, the drive for human knowledge had expanded to questioning horticultural prohibitions and acquiring the basics of firecraft and swordsmanship.

Several angels were still stuck on the initial inquiries of bodily existence.

“I dunno,” Crowley answered. “But it’s probably nice.” He said this with the rapidity of someone who had given the matter a great deal of thought. Indeed, while Aziraphale had started to develop a general theory that kissing might be enjoyable, Crowley had begun to long for empirical evidence from a particular subject.

“It’s probably like tying a clove hitch in your mouth, only with someone else’s tongue,” Crowley said matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale looked at the demon with greater awe than he’d displayed when he first beheld all of Creation.

“What, er, can you not do that?” Crowley asked.  [ return to text ]

26 Crowley’s dreams were incredibly vivid and detailed. In his dreams he was free from any forces of evil, his car was free from any forces of friction, and Aziraphale was free from any forces of chastity.  [ return to text ]

27 “Hell is empty and all the devils are here!” Crowley exclaimed to the crowd of his fellow demons with a kind of manic glee.

Blank and disconcertingly hungry stares greeted him.

“Well of course we’re here, that’s the whole point, you scaly moron,” Hastur said.

“It’s a famous quote! William Shakespeare, heard of him? Oh come on, guys, it was brilliant,” Crowley said weakly.  [ return to text ]

28 Mary’s mother had it displayed in cross-stitch form in the kitchen window, next to a sun-faded crayon portrait of the family chihuahua and an embroidery hoop adorned with IF I’M NOT AT HOME TRY THE DOLPHINS GAME.  [ return to text ]

29 Eric, at least the copy of him that made it to the surface, was petrified, and struggled to look as eldritch and intimidating as he felt he ought. His Latin was pretty rusty, and he hoped dearly that the young people who had sent for him were not classics students, seminarians, or lexicographers. Still, for all its embarrassment, the episode made a great conversation-opener at parties.  [ return to text ]

30 Heaven’s staff had embraced email, but strictly for internal use. Emails among the angels mostly consisted of inspirational quotes, payroll reminders, and LinkedIn invites.

Hell also provided its employees with email addresses. The demons never started new messages, instead replying-all to the singular email that had been used for thirty-odd years. This behavior, and the demons’ compulsion to mutual sabotage, meant that Hell’s computer system had more viruses than a world-class immunology lab.  [ return to text ]

31 He had specifically chosen the thing from the cafe he thought would horrify Aziraphale the most, and underneath the pride was a significant amount of apprehension about drinking it, however much he approved on principle of sweet bottled beverages with dubious health claims.  [ return to text ]

32 The Archangels had already decided to share a suite together, which they referred to as“The VIP Room” even after Aziraphale had tried and failed to explain that the term had somewhat less than sacred connotations.  [ return to text ]

33 Newt had been hired not for his IT skills, nor his people skills, nor even the paperclip-organizing skills he fell back on in moments of excruciating boredom. He had been hired because the Empyrean’s yoga instructor and part-time desk attendant had received an omen about his future employment on her app-based ouija board during a mimosa-heavy brunch with Mary Loquacious.  [ return to text ]

34 Crowley, for his part, was helpless as his brain was replaying every idiotic daydream he'd had about Aziraphale and mixed-up hotel rooms in alarmingly high definition.  [ return to text ]

35 The one after the Fall in which the demons had briefly returned to Heaven to clean out their desks was widely acknowledged to hold the top spot, with Aziraphale and Crowley’s descending lift ride from the top floor of the Bellagio occupying a distant second.  [ return to text ]

36 Hastur and Ligur took the only really comfortable pillows and threw the excess ornamental ones to Eric, who chose the least awful of them and passed the worst ones to Crowley. Twisting and turning as much as the narrow sides of his ersatz bed allowed, Crowley ended up with a mouthful of tassel and a brass button to the eye. Throw pillows, he decided, were a punishment right up there with an eternity of hellfire. At least hellfire didn’t flake off bits of chenille all over your nicest pajamas.  [ return to text ]


	4. There Will Be Hell To Pay (For Unapproved Personal Expenses)

_Aziraphale_

Aziraphale had never excelled at sleeping, and it did not help that Sandalphon stayed up for another hour scrolling through Uriel’s social media play-by-play of the Archangels’ movie night and muttering jealously. Growing tired of both Sandalphon and wakefulness, Aziraphale endeavoured to roll over in the covers in a fit of pique,[37] though it came out as more of an irritated flop.

Thankfully, the bed was large enough that Aziraphale saw little danger of running into Sandalphon’s person even in the event of significant unconscious wiggling. That the walls were soundproof was also a mercy; he was unable to hear the television playing in the demons’ room except as a low indistinct rumbling.[38] It was dark, and quiet, and even comfortable, and Aziraphale could not sleep at all.

He could not recall precisely when he had last drifted into real slumber (the closest thing he _could_ recall was a profound alcoholic haze on a not-too-distant New Year’s Eve, as a fire crackled and Crowley insisted that time, when observed by a truly enlightened mind, was shaped like a hexagon). 

Aziraphale knew conventional wisdom prescribed counting livestock as a soporific aid, but it was a remedy he disliked; he had already counted to infinity and back during some of the duller episodes of his long life.[39]

Several minutes after 3am he gave up trying to sleep. A faint aura of moonlit windowpane and the blinking light from the overhead smoke detector guided him to the lounge, where he skirted the demonic and angelic sigils drawn on the floor with deft slippers. Aziraphale unlocked the door and slipped into the astringent hallway. No one was awake, although a subwoofer thudded illegally from four doors down. Feeling hungrier that he’d ever been in his life, he padded to the closest vending machine with the reverence of a pilgrim approaching a long-sought reliquary.

Ithuriel was poised in front of the glowing machine with three quarters in his hand, seemingly stymied by the directions to INSERT PAYMENT, THEN MAKE SELECTION.

“Having trouble sleeping, dear?” Aziraphale asked. Ithuriel started, then relaxed.

“I _was_ doing fine but then I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep with Zephon snoring. Figured I might as well get some soda.” He traced the directions again with an elegant finger.

“Did you try counting sheep? I think it was in the handbook,” Aziraphale said, looking at the vending machine’s offerings with resignation. He firmly believed nothing good had ever emerged from the plasticine confines of a ‘snak pak.’

“I did,” Ithuriel exclaimed, breaking out into dimples. “The handbook says to keep counting up to infinity if you’re still feeling awake. But let me tell you”— he shot Aziraphale a wide-eyed look —“infinity is a _lot_ bigger than thirty.”

Aziraphale gave the kind of strained, patient expression he had once worn when someone told him they saw the image of the Son of God in their morning toast.[40]

“Yes, it’s true, infinity is a great deal bigger than thirty.” 

Ithuriel shook his head. “I still can’t decide whether I want purple soda or green soda.” 

“They’re out of purple, dear, that’s why there’s a large red X over it.”

Aziraphale took matters and quarters into his own hands and procured a lime soda for Ithuriel, who gave him a grateful hug and departed, slurping. 

He was trying to decide whether to try the corn chips or the sugared peanuts when he heard the clarion voice of an angel to his right.

“Aziraphale, is that you? Can’t be that many people with tartan dressing gowns wandering around here.”

Michael was wearing a sweatsuit and a pair of glasses. She looked more relaxed than Aziraphale had ever seen her, but there was something in the way she held her phone’s flashlight that suggest she was still capable of walloping any occult forces that might be lurking near the ice machine.

“Oh! Hello Michael, I didn’t expect to bump into you on this floor. I was just getting some”— Aziraphale gestured at the vending machine like royalty indicating a rabble —“light refreshments.”

Michael yawned. “Is old Sandy asleep? Any trouble with the demons?”

“Sandalphon’s sleeping,” Aziraphale confirmed, trying and failing to unhear _Sandy._ “I believe the demons are watching telly.”

There was a brief, carpeted silence as Michael squinted into the hallway and then smiled at Aziraphale.

“Glad to hear it hasn’t been more hellish than it has to be,” she said. “Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

As she turned and walked down the hall to the elevator, Aziraphale was surprised to see her sweatpants had ‘ANGEL’ written across them on the backside.

No sooner had the appropriate buttons for the corn chips been punched than Aziraphale heard a sibilant whisper behind him.

“Really now, why is _everyone_ awake at this ungodly hour?” he asked, turning around and accidentally thwacking Crowley with the belt of his dressing gown.

“Been hiding here for fifteen minutes trying to get a pack of crisps,” Crowley said, as a smile unwound across his face. “I was just thinking about you, Aziraphale.”

“At 3 o’clock in the morning, dear?” Aziraphale tilted his head. “Please do tell me what, precisely, you were thinking about.”

“Oh don’t you start that with me.” It was a bit too defensive. “Look, you’re the one prowling around at the demon’s hour.”

“It is _not_ the demon’s hour, no one has believed that since the 16th century,” Aziraphale huffed, reluctant to restart an old argument but equally incapable of letting it pass by.

“It is too, your lot took all the other hours. Used to get monks up at the crack of dawn just so creatures of Hell couldn’t take any pleasant morning strolls, if I recall correctly.”

“Well, I’m certainly doing nothing untoward, while _you’re_ skulking about in the dark surprising unsuspecting angels.”

“Why do you always do this?” Crowley said, waving his pajama-clad arms. “Why do you react to normal things I say like I’ve just asked if I can rip off your bow tie with my teeth?”

Aziraphale’s hand and the packet of corn chips it was clutching flew to his neck.

“I’m not even wearing a bow tie,” he said, offended.

Crowley glowered. “Trust me, angel, on some level you’re _always_ wearing a bow tie.” 

“Now you’re just meandering into nonsense,” Aziraphale said dismissively, opening the corn chips. “Here, have one of these, if you’d like.” 

They crunched on corn chips as the tiff subsided, ambling back to the room. Crowley wiped the chip grease on the hem of his pajamas, while Aziraphale, loathe to sully his dressing gown with partially hydrogenated vegetable oil and Yellow Lake 5, sucked on the tips of his fingers with purported daintiness. If the enthusiasm of that dainty finger-cleaning happened to make his demon companion go a little wide at the eyes and wobbly at the lip, well, he was far too much of a heavenly creature to have anticipated such adverse reactions.

They reached the hotel room door.

“You should go first, I’ll hang back,” Crowley said.

“Oh no, after you,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll stay back a minute.”

“I said it first, you go in, angel.”

“No, really, Crowley, it’s no trouble.” 

“Look, it’s easier to explain if a demon is following an angel around, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, scrunching his nose a little.

“Well I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, “I could be conducting angelic espionage.”

“Angel, please, before someone wakes up.”

“Oh, quite right.”

Aziraphale slipped in the doorway and crept around the sigil once more, listening for Crowley’s delayed footfalls. He murmured a brief goodnight in the darkness of the lounge and reentered his room, where Sandalphon was lightly snoring almost in time with the song playing on the demons’ muffled TV.

It was 4:30am before Aziraphale fell asleep. He dreamed of snakes.

***

Aziraphale woke to dawn and Gabriel standing in the center of the room.

“I’ve got good news!” he announced.

You can take the angel out of the heralding gig, but the herald never really leaves the angel. For a bewildering moment, Aziraphale thought Gabriel was about to tell him he was pregnant.[41]

“Normally they don’t take reservations for breakfast but I got us a big table downstairs for 6:15am.” Gabriel’s sing-song voice boomed from the foot of the bed.

Aziraphale rolled over to look at the clock on the nightstand, which informed him in glowing orange numerals that it was 6:00am.

“How long have the other archangels been up?” Sandalphon accused, wiping sleep out of his eyes.

“Oh Michael and I hit the fitness center an hour and a half ago, they’ve got _superb_ stair climbers,” Gabriel said. “Let’s get breakfast!”

“Could you tell—do you know if Hell is up?” Aziraphale asked.

“Didn’t see any of them in this suite,” Gabriel shrugged. “Evil may never sleep but I bet you the demons are going to lie in bed until noon, lazy things they are.”

Aziraphale was feeling horrifically jealous of the demons as he dressed and brushed his teeth, continued feeling jealous as he took the elevator down seven floors, and likely could have seethed in jealousy all through breakfast. But as it was, when the angels arrived in the ground-floor atrium, they found Hell was already up and large crowds of demons were retrieving muffins, dispensing orange juice, and clumsily pouring batter into rotating waffle irons.

Grabbing a plastic plate, Aziraphale made his way to the pastries and tried not to laugh at the sight of Michael and Uriel queued behind a knot of squabbling demons waiting for a chance at the tiny boxes of cornflakes. It was noisy in the breakfast area. Toast popped, the orange juice machine thrummed, cooking waffle batter burbled and burned. Over by the doorway, something rustled sleepily, and Aziraphale could see Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He looked not so much alive as reluctantly reanimated by his enormous cup of coffee.

When the angels were reassembled at their long, reserved table, Gabriel folded his hands in prayer. 

"Most blessed supervisor, for the waffles we are about to receive let us be truly thankful. Bless your choir of angels that we may advance the cause of righteousness." He paused. "Also, let me know if you want to make any changes to the ten o'clock agenda."

Cutting into his do-it-yourself waffle, Aziraphale reflected sadly that it would have been much better if it had been done by anyone but himself.

“Anybody have interesting dreams?” Uriel asked, prodding conversation to life with a jolt as though vivifying an ethically questionable monster. Dream recounting is a notoriously dull and unsatisfactory discussion topic, but it is much more tolerable to angels who only dream at 300-year intervals.[42]

“Oh yeah, I had one where I was playing the trumpet,” Gabriel said, stirring his bowl of Wheaties. “But it ended pretty soon after that.” 

“I had a vision from God,” Ithuriel said loftily, as he attempted to butter the underside of his toast.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Michael wince.

“Well, go on then, tell us,” Gabriel encouraged. “What’d She show you?”

Ithuriel looked around the table, sparkling under all the attention like a brilliant diamond ring upon a newly engaged finger.

“So I dreamed that I woke up in the middle of the night, at the demonic hour,” Ithuriel began.

Sandalphon gave a quiet gasp.

“There was a ton of noise in my ears and I felt hollow on the inside, so I left the suite. It was there I saw a Light, glowing from the end of the hallway. The Almighty sent to me a fellow angel, and that angel gave me nectar from Heaven, and I was revived.”

“Whoa, that’s incredible!” Gabriel exclaimed. “See that’s what I’m talking about, God’s wonders never desert us, even when we inhabit these mortal forms.”

“Hang on a second,” Aziraphale said, lowering his cup of passable English Breakfast. “Ithuriel, you’re just talking about when you woke up in the middle of the night and I helped you buy a soda at the vending machine.”

Ithuriel gave him a look of extremely handsome pity.

“It was a vision from God,” he said in an airy voice.

“Did _you_ have any interesting dreams, Aziraphale?” Uriel asked, scrolling on her phone.

Aziraphale had slept for only an hour and a half, and his mouth began talking about his dream without prior authorization from his brain.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I had a dream that I was wrestling with an evil serpent, which seemed rather keen on ripping off my bow tie with its teeth.”

Uriel looked up from Twitter. “Gosh, Aziraphale, that sounds really scary.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, in fact it was extraordinarily pleasant” —Aziraphale’s brain finally caught up with his speech— “to, erm, defeat evil! That’s what we’re all about in Heaven, right? Always a pleasure for good to, you know, give evil a good seeing-to,” he finished lamely.

He was very conscious of not looking at Crowley’s table, where some sort of heated discussion was taking place.[43]

“Well that sounds fantastic,” Gabriel said. He seemed oblivious to Aziraphale’s unease. “Now let’s all meet back in the lobby at seven for the official start of our retreat agenda. Make sure to wear something comfortable.”

Seven o’clock saw the angels ushered into a room full of yoga mats and soft, warm lighting. A young woman in yoga pants printed with galaxies was sitting calmly and flexibly on the floor.

“Welcome to sunrise yoga. I’m Anathema Device, and it’s my job to help you focus your cosmic energies and unlock your true potential. Also to remind you that shoes must be placed at the side of the room before the start of class.”

There was a shuffling as the angels undid laces and buckles, ever dutiful. Aziraphale, who deplored sitting on anything that could not be described as plush and considered being barefoot around others mildly obscene, plopped himself onto a yoga mat in the back of the room with a vague dread. As the rest of the angels took their seats, he was dismayed to discover that Gabriel had a pair of ANGEL sweatpants to match Michael’s.

Anathema waited to see that her class was unshod and seated before she continued. “Great, so we’re going to start with a simple meditation exercise. I want all of you to close your eyes and breathe from your belly as you imagine yourself collapsing into a single point of light.”

 _Been there, done that, terribly uninteresting,_ Aziraphale thought. He felt guilty immediately, and tried to remind himself that the Lord tested her servants in many ways and sooner or later that was bound to include a yoga class or two.

Anathema laid one palm over the other and continued her serene imperatives.

“Imagine that this point of light is all that exists in the world. You’re floating in something that is not space, and is not time, because space and time are abstractions to you.”

 _Oh all right,_ Aziraphale grumbled mentally, _I’ll imagine._

He closed his eyes and immediately felt sleep dragging at him, trying to pull him under its soft, inviting surface. Aziraphale tried to imagine what Anathema was talking about, and as he fell into slumber he began to draw on his considerable life experience of existing outside of space and time.

_Before the Beginning_

It is said that on the fifth day God brought forth all the creatures of the seas and the air, and on the sixth day the land was likewise populated with all manner of living things.

This story captures the production phase of the world’s beginning, but fails to account for the R&D process.

Before the world was properly created, back when everything was metaphysically hazy and accompanied by harp music, so long ago that the harp music had yet to become cheesy, a large group of angels was keeping busy drawing up designs for creatures to inhabit the planned-upon Earth. 

It was an exciting time. Angels that had shown only mild interest in the prospects of quarks and heavy elements and the concept of spacetime got rather excited about the possibility of making funny little creatures to live in the newly created world. Naturally, all creations were subject to quality control, and the Archangels were required to approve each species after a brief presentation by its authoring angel. 

“Next!” Gabriel called, from what had just been christened the conference room.

Aziraphale fluttered forward. He had only received a physical form quite recently as part of a 30-day trial period for better understanding the needs of corporeal creatures, and he was still getting the hang of flying using actual feathers.[44] His large white wings thrummed with excitement and a new emotion he would later learn to classify as ‘nerves.’ 

“Land, sea, or air?” Gabriel asked.

“Sea,” Aziraphale replied. “Although this one breathes air, you know. Bit of a twist on the whole fish thing.” He wiggled his new fingers with excitement.

“Oh thank goodness,” Gabriel said. “I thought you were gonna bring in another beetle. I don’t know what got into those guys on the insect team but they’ve been churning out beetles like crazy.”

“Oh, no, not remotely beetle-like. Not that there’s anything wrong with beetles. Nice shiny little fellows. But that’s not the point here,” Aziraphale reprimanded himself. “My point is—dolphins. That’s my point.”

“Let’s see the specs.”

Aziraphale handed over a scroll to Gabriel. Technically, writing had not been invented, and nor had paper, but before linear time really got going there was a bit of leeway with such things.

Gabriel made little nods as he read the scroll.

“Highly intelligent—that’s good, we gotta offset all these beetles....lives in groups—ok...capable of songlike noises—now that’s real angelic inspiration right there, _love_ that....mates for pleasure as well as reproduction—” Gabriel stopped and gave Aziraphale a look.

“Something’s got to,” Aziraphale said mildly. “Did you see, it can blow bubble rings!”

Gabriel shrugged and kept reading. Behavioral norms were not yet set in stone, partially because the plans for stone were still undergoing final approval.

“‘Capable of leaping from the sea, and will draw air into its body through a spigot at the top of its head. See also whales’,” he finished. “This looks great, Aziraphale, we can give it to Operations right away.”

“Oh wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“Hey, do me a favor, and if you see anyone from the insect team, tell them they can take five, OK?”

Aziraphale nodded, and felt happiness in his heart, and a tiny hint of pride.

“Next!”

An angel with a plume of red hair flew past Aziraphale into the room. Crowley had a different name back then, as well as rather attractive brown eyes. Aziraphale had seen him a few times before and found him odd. He hovered outside the doorway, watching and listening with the spotless conscience of someone who has yet to conceptualize eavesdropping.

“Land, sea, or air?” Gabriel asked.

“Land,” Crowley said, handing over his scroll. “Though I’m thinking if it does well we should come out with a sea version. Little spin-off.”

“I like that entrepreneurial spirit!” Gabriel said. Then he glanced at the scroll and frowned a little. “Uh, isn’t this really similar to worms? We have a lot of worms already.”

‘It’s a snake!” Crowley said. “Shiny exterior, good spinal flexibility, comes in a variety of colorways including two-tone and striped.”

“This is basically a line, but alive.” Gabriel sounded skeptical.

“It’s _minimalist._ Thought it would be good to bring down the average number of legs a bit, insect team’s been on an absolute tear.”

“What does it do?” Gabriel asked.

Crowley, as far as Aziraphale could see, looked taken aback. “Do? Er, mostly it sits in the sunlight. Sometimes the shade. Doesn’t like to eat in front of others.”

“See I think we’ve got a lot of entries in the ‘sits around and doesn’t do a lot’ category,” Gabriel said. “But OK, we’ll take it under consideration. You can go.”

Crowley was a little dejected as he left the conference room, and Aziraphale was about to speak to him when he was distracted by a sob, and Crowley passed by.

“Aziraphale they were so negative—they said it looked like it had been partially melted.” Ithuriel had rushed up to him, water leaking from his eyes. (Strange feature, that. Aziraphale made a mental note to avoid it.) “They said it barely counted as a fish, it was more of a blob.”

“Well, you did call it a ‘blobfish,’ dear,” Aziraphale said gently.

“I was on a tight deadline!” Ithuriel sobbed. “I tried my best.”

“I know, I know.” Aziraphale hesitated, and then scooped Ithuriel into what was quite possibly the first hug in the universe. “I thought it was rather cute, actually, in a way,” Aziraphale said. It was his first lie, a modest start to a lifelong habit.

Crowley had turned back at the sound of this conversation, and was staring at Aziraphale, looking entranced. Aziraphale broke up the hug and murmured something about how Ithuriel had in any case done a very respectable job with algae, and the two angels parted, Ithuriel looking considerably less distressed than he had before. Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Hiya there!” Crowley said. “That was sweet of you, telling him the fish wasn’t messed up.”

“Well, it _was_ a strict deadline, and he was _awfully_ anxious about it,” Aziraphale began, gripping one hand in another. “Not that we shouldn’t try our best under the circumstances, of course.”

“Or we could change the circumstances,” Crowley offered. “It’d be nice if the deadlines weren’t so strict, we could have more time to relax.”

Aziraphale stared as though Crowley had just called him a blobfish.

“You can’t say things like that!” he said. “Not out loud. What do you want to relax for anyway? What would you _do_ if you weren’t, well, doing things?”

“I dunno,” Crowley admitted. “Been cracking out nebulas like mad the last few days, haven’t given it much thought.”

Aziraphale smiled, taken aback by the genuine answer. “Well, let me know when you figure it out, I suppose.” He turned to go.

“I get off at five,” Crowley called out, catching up to Aziraphale in a few wingbeats. 

“Don’t we all?” Aziraphale felt puzzled, and a little frightened.

“Just. I dunno. In case—when you’re done doing things, that is—you’d like to, I guess, not-do-things. With me.”

Aziraphale’s heart felt oddly full, uncomfortably full. He was beginning to wonder if he could cancel his 30-day free trial.

“I think I’d rather not,” he said. It was his second lie, and considerably bigger than the first. “What I mean is—well it’s just very busy, you know.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, taking a step back. “OK.” He brightened, and cocked his head, sending red curls springing. “I’ll ask again another time.”

Nobody remembered those days very well after the world had been created and the quality control checks were completed. As far as Aziraphale was concerned in later years, dolphins may as well have been fish.

***

“Sir, we are way past namaste, you gotta wake up,” Anathema was bending over Aziraphale and shaking his shoulder.

“I think I invented dolphins,” Aziraphale said woozily.

“Meditation can bring up a variety of thoughts and feelings and all of them are valid,” Anathema said. “But I need to set up for Yogalates Ultimate Blast, OK?”

“Aziraphale,” Michael said, walking over. “You were incredible, you were so focused it was like you were unconscious.” It was hard to tell whether it was a compliment or an accusation

“Ah, right,” Aziraphale said. “Well, giving it my best try, you know.”

“C’mon, you should change before the next session,” Michael said.

As Aziraphale left the yoga studio, he glanced at Anathema. She gave him a mild wave and a milder smile, but as he left he could have sworn that the galaxies printed on her yoga pants were beginning to drift and spin.

_Crowley_

Bad hotel coffee, Crowley thought, was like the pits of Hell. A little ways in and the primary impression was warmth, even familiarity, but get all the way to the bottom and suddenly you couldn’t sleep at night. 

“Crowley, you’ve been staring at that mug for ten minutes! Hurry up, will you, we’ve got an agenda to stick to!” Beelzebub hollered.

“Can’t a demon sit back and enjoy the view?” Crowley asked, indicating the window in front of him. “I’ve never been to Florida before.”

Crowley had, in fact, been to Florida once before, to see a doctor—technically, a herpetologist—about an unsightly and acutely embarrassing skin condition.

Celestial beings are not really supposed to fall ill from ordinary causes, be they bacterial, viral, or immunological, but worrying about it too much can make one contract anything. Aziraphale had once ended up with scarlet fever simply because he wondered whether it was possible he might come down with it, and on one of Gabriel’s infrequent check-ins the Archangel had caught a dreadful case of tuberculosis that necessitated divine intervention of the sort not normally offered on the ethereal health plan. 

All this is to say that in 1998 Crowley worried excessively about a red patch of skin on his elbow, and it soon spiraled out of control into a full-body rash he was unable to shake or shed. A tour of London’s premier medical facilities under various assumed names yielded nothing of use, so he was forced to investigate the possibility of reptilian affliction.

Dr. R. P. Tyler could still remember the jittery man fully swathed in a black hoodie and thoroughly unseasonable black scarf and gloves who had turned up to his job at Reptile World to beg a private audience, claiming he was sick with worry about the terrible scale condition tormenting his pet red-bellied snake. The snake was nowhere in evidence, but the man had provided a highly accurate and detailed description of its symptoms.[45]

“CROWLEY! Get your scaly ass out of that chair now!”

“Right, yeah, I’m coming, hold your hellhorses.”

Much ink has been spilled speculating about Satan’s agenda, and there are a few typical themes most scholars concur about: rivers of blood, the rule of discord and depravity, eternal torment, goat motifs, and so on. But centuries of demonological research had not predicted item number one on Hell’s agenda for its company retreat.

BRAND MANAGEMENT: HOW TO SELL HELL TO A NEW CLIENTELE

Meet in the Cypress Room 7:45am. Coffee and tea provided.

The Cypress Room was crammed with demons by the time Crowley arrived, and Hastur and Ligur had positioned themselves so as to commandeer access to the coffee and tea. Crowley was a strong believer in picking battles when it came to dealing with his colleagues, and decided there was no way the Hazelnut Blend was worth crossing Hastur and Ligur before 8am.

“You all know why we’re here, of course,” Beelzebub said, strolling in front of a large whiteboard. They were carrying a bowl of bagels dipped in ketchup from the breakfast area, having defied the sign ordering patrons to RETURN ALL DISHES. “We are here to create a new slogan for Hell.”

“What’s wrong with the old one?” Ligur asked from his place blocking the teabags.

“Our current slogan is a little too 14th Century for our evolving image,” Dagon said. She was holding a large book. “The Dark Council has been discussing this brand refresh for about 200 years, and we thought it would make an excellent subject for the forthcoming retreat.”

“I don’t suppose there was any thought to updating the plumbing beyond the 14th Century as well?” Eric asked.

Dagon sniffed. “You’ll have to take it up with Maintenance.”

Hastur growled something under his breath about what he would like to do to Maintenance. It was unrelated to repair requests.

"Now, as we all know, Hell's unofficial slogan 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,' was chosen after someone posted it on the door of the third-floor restroom," Dagon said. "It is my hope that today we can generate a list of ideas that will be equally menacing, but will resonate with the contemporary condemned soul."

"How about 'ye who enter here, abandon all hope'?" Hastur suggested.

Dagon sighed. "Ideally a little more distinct."

"We could do 'ye who are hoping, abandon it here where you enter,'" Ligur offered.

"We're trying to move away from 'ye,'" Dagon said through gritted, pointed teeth.

"Just cut to the important bit and make it 'you fucked up, idiot,'" Crowley interrupted.

"Great quote, Crowley, who said that?" Dagon asked.

"Me," said Crowley "to myself. At intervals of approximately once per hour."

“We can’t use that,” Beelzebub cut in. The demons started in surprise.

“Look, we can’t say ‘fuck,’ or we won’t be able to get it printed on the commemorative shot glasses.”

“Satan forbid,” Crowley whispered.

“Let’s take a step back and think about what we want the tagline to actually _evoke_ ,” Beelzebub said. “What do we want people to think of, when they think of Hell?”

Someone raised a hand.

“Yes, you there.”

“Er, Mephistopheles, from Purchasing. I think we want them to think about despair and, er, destruction?”

“Write that down,” Beelzebub barked.

Dagon set dry-erase marker to whiteboard and duly scribbled.

Another hand. 

“Yeah, Asmodeus, Department of Torments. I think it should put them in mind of despair, but like, in a cool way.”

“Despair...in...cool...way,” Dagon murmured at the whiteboard.

Crowley perked up. “I agree with that, you know. What’s the point of being a demon if people don’t think you’re cool?”

“The point,” Hastur said, brandishing a coffee stirrer with unmistakable malevolence, “is to serve our Evil Master.”

Ligur tore open a package of artificial sugar in a manner that suggested he would be happy to repeat the gesture upon a different subject.

“It was a joke, guys, obviously,” Crowley said.

“It’s true though, we are trying to—what was the phrase you read about, Dagon?” Beelzebub asked.

“Appeal to new market segments while preserving brand integrity,” Dagon supplied.

“Just go with something simple,” Crowley suggested. “How about, ‘Sex, Drugs, and Tortured Souls’? Has a nice ring to it, though the second part’s suspect, hard to get the good stuff down there.”[46]

“No good,” Mephistopheles said, looking up from his phone. “According to the Google Search Engine, that’s the name of a tattoo parlor in Glasgow, a club in King’s Cross, and an emo band in Connecticut.”

“Oh, fuck, I definitely took the name from that club. Nice acoustics, but the drinks are shit.” Crowley started pacing.[47]

“What about, if our slogan is ‘Abandon all hope, _you_ who enter here’?” Hastur asked. “Then it hasn’t got the ‘ye.’”

Beelzebub rubbed a hand across their temples.

“Look, I could do this all day,” Crowley said. “You want cutesy? ‘Nine levels, full of devils.’ Honest and a bit hopeful? ‘It can’t any worse.’ Midway between cheeky and creepy? ‘Where nightmares come true.’ Just plain creepy? ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ Promotional and suggestive? ‘All the action’s downstairs.’ Pornographic? ‘We put the devil in—’”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Would you shut up for five blessed seconds?” 

“I’ve got it!” Hastur exclaimed. “How about ‘Everyone who enters should abandon all hope’?” 

They volleyed back and forth about the slogan and the forecasted trends concerning the next decade of condemned souls for so long that the demons never got around to discussing the official logo, which was to be a key part of the commemorative shot glasses.

“OK, we’re fifteen minutes into lunch, meet back here in forty-five,” Beelzebub said.

As the Cypress Room emptied, Crowley looked over to Eric, who was scowling at his phone. 

“What’s wrong with you, then?” Crowley asked. 

Eric was immersed in the tiny screen; when he looked up from his phone it was as though he had just been thawed out of some distant ice age.

“What? Oh, I’m good, it’s nothing.”

“Eric c’mon. You owe me one for all those ‘you-won’t-believe-this-pet-snake’ Buzzfeed articles I helped you make.”[48]

Eric signed and snapped his phone case shut. “Fine. Anjali’s with someone else.”

“The dead girl you were Skyping?”

“No one uses _Skype_ anymore, Crowley, but yeah. She got back with her ex, he just died and _lucky her_ he got condemned to Hell for eternity as well.”

Crowley raised an extremely tentative hand and gave Eric an even more tentative pat on the back. He was not good at comforting, he always felt condescending. How did Aziraphale manage to make it seem like the most natural thing in the world?

“Ah, that’s rough, that is. Who is he?” 

Eric shrugged. “Some eighth circle asshole.”

Crowley winced and whistled. “Yeah I wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of that.”

“Ugh, I know,” Eric said.

Crowley was occasionally tempted to do things that were not very prudent, but which brought him a great deal of emotional satisfaction. He gave in to lots of temptations. It was why he drove far above the speed limit, frightened the living daylights out of people talking during movies, and watched every adaptation of _Dangerous Liaisons_ with Aziraphale while only tenuously sober.

Once again, Crowley made a little indulgence of catharsis over caution.

“You know, I’ve been dealing with a bit of the old unrequited feelings rot myself,” Crowley said, casualness calculated with decimal precision.

Eric looked up.

“Oh really? Literally half of Hell is convinced you’re in a serious relationship with a boa constrictor, you know.”

“Half of Hell shares the collective brain power of a banana slug.” 

“Hey, there’s more to life than being clever,” Eric said. “But OK, I assume you’re not dating a literal snake—”

“Really a lot of ethical concerns there,” Crowley muttered. “To say nothing of the logistics.”

“—so who is this guy?”

Crowley tipped his sunglasses forward to glare at Eric.

“How did you know it was ‘a guy’?”

Eric laughed. “Oh come on, Crowley, I’ve known for like 2,000 years. I was a little surprised you never came out, I mean, given you’ve got a nonbinary boss and all that.”

“Well, yeah, all right, it’s a guy.” Crowley sighed. “I dunno, I didn’t want it to be like a ‘Hell thing,’ you know? Humans managed to demonize each other pretty thoroughly for being queer already, didn’t think they needed a bunch of flaming demons going around confirming their _cognitive biases._ ” He pronounced the last two words directly through the bridge of his nose.

“Ah right, I take your point,” Eric said, looking thoughtful. “I’m only like 70% straight myself, you know—”

"That's a pretty small percentage...”

“—but dear Satan, are men in Hell ever rubbish.”

“Amen to that,” Crowley said from the corner of his mouth.

“I guess it’s left to Heaven to provide some better representation. They must have gay angels up there, don’t you think?”

Crowley was beset by a sudden and vociferous coughing.

“You alright?” Eric asked, concern flashing from beneath his eyeliner.

“Angels? Course they haven’t—no, I mean really? I reckon Heaven’s all straight and narrow, so to speak,” Crowley said. “No variety up there, they’ve got too many rigid, er, moral principles.” He had begun moving his hand up and down to indicate the rigidity of said principles but stopped when he realized it might look like he was indicating something else entirely.

“Well,” Eric said, a little less dejected, “here’s to catching better fish in that great bleeding sea we keep hearing about.”

_Aziraphale_

Aziraphale was emerging from a session on Interdepartmental Communication Best Practices (“If you don’t have anything nice to say, say something nice anyway!”) when he felt something buzz inside his jacket. He had already begun to fret about being discorporated by a killer bee before he remembered that he had stashed the mobile phone from Crowley in his interior pocket. Aziraphale hadn’t intended to carry it around—a part of him insisted that he throw it into the sea, though he did not, in principle, approve of littering—but he was more anxious about leaving it in his room than he was about carrying it, so he had slotted it inside his jacket and not given it a second thought.

Ducking into a stairwell, he hastily pulled it out and attempted to open and view the message.

After activating and deactivating the voice control, silencing and maximizing the volume, and taking several blurry photos of his own thumb, he finally managed to access his text.

congratulations on opening a text message angel

kokomo lounge 2 blocks down 8pm?

Azirmaphale did not want to send a text message to reply, but he was totally occupied with Gabriel’s agenda until 7 o'clock, and he did not relish the idea of communicating with Crowley through spurious requests made through the front desk, smudged cocktail napkins, or any of his other backup plans. So he texted Crowley back, one deliberate letter at a time.

You know I would be delighted with the pleasure of your company at the aforementioned time and place.

I am less delighted with this singular and entirely too vibration-prone device.

Perhaps it would be prudent to delete this message.

Aziraphale gave the send button an emphatic press and looked up to find Gabriel staring at him in complete shock.

"Azraphale, are you sending _text messages?_ With a _cellphone?_ "

Aziraphale began an explanatory stammer, but was stopped by Gabriel giving him the single most aggressive hug he had ever received, which was saying something.[49] Gabriel clapped him on the back; it was like being bludgeoned by collegiality.

"Er, yes, I've got myself a mobile. Well, it was a gift, actually," he said before he could stop himself.

"My gosh, never thought I'd see you finally keeping up with the times," Gabriel said, all awe and wonderment.

If Aziraphale wanted to make a tart reply that it was _just a bit rich_ for an angel who still had no idea who Plato was to chide another angel for not keeping up with human affairs, he successfully bit back the reply, and Gabriel noticed nothing.

"Figured I had better, you know, at some point," Aziraphale meandered.

Gabriel gave another bone-crushing back pat. "Well tell whoever got you that phone they're doing the Lord’s work." 

Aziraphale disentangled himself from the hug and refrained from telling Gabriel that the person who gave him the cell phone was in fact professionally dedicated to frustrating the Lord’s work at every turn.

“Best be off, then,” he chirped, and Gabriel continued up the stairs.

"Oh, hey, be sure to text me your phone number: I'll add it to the Staff Contact List," Gabriel tossed down over his shoulder. “Gosh, have I got so many good inspirational quotes to send you!”

Aziraphale began to seriously reconsider plans to throw his mobile phone into the sea.

***

The Kokomo Lounge was not the sleaziest-looking bar Aziraphale had ever visited,[50] but it may well have been the tackiest. The lights were very blue, tinged with lurid yellows and pinks, and it was sort of like being in a coral reef made of cellophane. On the wall hung a poster of a buxom mermaid wearing sea stars as pasties, next to a lithograph of an octopus holding multiple martini glasses aloft and clinking one with an affable walrus. There were at least twelve fake parrots, four of which were talking animatronics and one of which was intelligible. 

Aziraphale’s disdainful nose wrinkle was visible through the colorful lights as he sat down on the barstool next to Crowley.

“Well I should have expected your first text message would be virtually indistinguishable from an embossed calling card,” Crowley said without moving. “‘The aforementioned time and place,’ that’s quite a turn of phrase.”

“Politeness is always in fashion,” Aziraphale said, folding his fingers neatly.

“Oh, don’t get me with the company line.”

“It _is._ If you could only be polite once in a while, perhaps you wouldn’t feel the need to try so hard to remain fashionable. It smacks of”—he gave Crowley a glance that was surely intended to be a scornful, but became more and more appreciative as it lingered—”overcompensation.”

One of Crowley’s eyebrows climbed above the rim of his sunglasses.

“Is that any way to talk to a fiend of Hell?”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said, smothering a grin. “I believe you’re supposed to start off with protective incantations.”

Crowley laughed into his tall and heavily garnished cocktail glass.

"What _are_ you drinking, then?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley held it up to the light.

"I'd say about two shots of rum tragically drowned in a can of crushed pineapple."

"This place is ridiculous." Aziraphale's disapproval was clouded with amusement as he picked up the laminated menu.

"I'll have you know this is a fine establishment," Crowley said. "Fact, I'm underdressed." He plucked one of the cocktail umbrellas from his enormous drink and stuck it in his jacket like a boutonniere.

The bartender, a young woman with elaborate eyeshadow that looked like twin sunsets, approached them with a nozzle in hand.

“Something for you, sir? The Jalapeno Hurricane is on special.”

"Oh, I suppose I'll have a strawberry margarita," Aziraphale said, slotting the cocktail menu back into its holder. The bartender went to retrieve the appropriate glass.

"Trying to shield yourself from my demonic wiles with a salt circle, are you?" Crowley asked.

"Oh goodness, Crowley, I didn't—I forgot, I'll get something else," Aziraphale apologized.

Crowley shook his head. "No need, angel, that's just a stupid legend. No more true than the notion all angels are good singers.”

Aziraphale shuddered, thinking of innumerable renditions of _My Favorite Things_ that had nearly soured him on raindrops, roses, and the whiskers on kittens altogether.

“Oh thank, you, dear, keep the tab open," he said as the bartender brought his margarita over, frosted and pink and encircled with salt. “Are you sure it can’t hurt you, Crowley?”

"Look, I'll prove it."

Crowley seized the strawberry margarita, emptied it in three slurps, and then licked all the salt on the rim of the glass, twirling it across his long, forked tongue.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. "You can't do that!"

"Yeah, you're right, rude of me not to get you another drink first—can we get another strawberry margarita here?" he called to the bartender.

"No, not that, I mean you can't do that with your tongue _while people are watching._ ” Aziraphale’s whisper was practically a hiss. “It’s _obscene._ ”

Crowley put his chin in his hand and leaned forward.

"Really?"

"And occult," Aziraphale added. "Obviously, the demonic nature is more to the point.”

"You know I can do much weirder than that," Crowley stirred his drink with a spear of pineapple. "Like that double loop—"

“Here’s your strawberry margarita, sir.” The bartender set it in front of Aziraphale, eyeing him with mild alarm.

"Erm, anyway, dear, when did you discover the salt circle thing wasn’t true?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Oh, halfway through a margarita when I realized I hadn’t been discorporated and sent back to Hell."

Aziraphale snorted.

"I suppose even after 6,000 years of,”— he paused to look for a suitable term —"being rather well-acquainted, there must be things we don't know about each other.”

"Tell me one of yours," Crowley said.

Aziraphale sipped thoughtfully. "After we had that argument about whether all dogs do indeed go to Heaven I tried to find the ethereal dog park to check. Before I got to it I accidentally let loose an old scrap of a cat who somehow got past security and back to Earth." 

“Don’t tell me that’s—”

Aziraphale nodded. "Mr Whiskers the Eighth that I leave out kibble for behind the bookshop is actually the same as Messrs. Whiskers 1 through 7, since he has been dead for more than a hundred and fifty years. The kibble is really just deference to tradition."

"You've got toffee for a heart, angel," Crowley said, with something that sounded like pride in his voice. "As a demon I'm under obligation to be disgusted."

"Of course, dear," Azuraphale smiled. "What about you? What don't I know?"

"This isn’t my original body," Crowley said. "I got discorporated once.”

Aziraphale gasped as though Crowley had confessed to murder rather than death. 

"What on earth happened?"

Crowley pinched his nose and grimaced.

“According to Hell's personnel records, I was thrown from a hot air balloon by an unnamed avenging angel."

"Who did that?" Aziraphale’s voice was livid, knife-edged.

"Well I thought that was a better story than ‘I was drunk skydiving and got the maths of when to open my wings wrong.’ Been a bit more careful since then, now I leave the wild hedonism to you angelic types."

"That would explain why you drive so slowly," Aziraphale deadpanned.

"Hey now, being a public menace is literally in my job description."

"Did you, er, change anything? When you got a new body?"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale for a moment and licked some of the condensation from his glass off the back of a knuckle. 

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"You're ridiculous, " Aziraphale said, but his gaze trickled across Crowley's face and down his minimally-buttoned shirt. 

The Kokomo Lounge seemed to have become hazier, the din of the animatronic parrots mixing with the background music and the clink of glasses.

"Tell me something else I don't know," Aziraphale said, slower. "I'd like to find out how you tempt people.”

Crowley leaned in and murmured, "You want to know how do temptations, huh?"

Aziraphale nodded with half-lidded eyes.

"Wellll," Crowley drew out the end of the word, "we've already got step one down, which is to buy the temptee a drink.” He glanced at Aziraphale’s nearly empty glass. "Let's have another one of those."

"And then?" Aziraphale asked, taking the fresh strawberry margarita offered to him.

"Well, you try to get them to, you know, open up a little," Crowley drawled, eyeing Aziraphale's primly folded legs and stretching his own a little wider. He spun the barstool so that his knees rested just outside Aziraphale's, carefully not touching them.

"To open, right," Aziraphale repeated. He felt lightheaded, and it seemed like he was merely an observer as someone else uncrossed his legs so the outsides of his thighs touched the insides of Crowley's.

"Then you lean forward a bit, maybe a hand on their shoulder,"—he leaned far enough that Aziraphale could see the yellow glow on the other side of the sunglasses.

 _Crowley has beautiful eyes_ , he thought. Like topaz, or a warm fire, or a strong amber drink. 

_Stop that_ , said the sensible part of his mind, the one that completed his taxes and sent his thank-you notes. _Crowley has eyes like bile, and sulfur, and tacky wallpaper._

"And then?" Aziraphale asked, gaze flicking from dark lens to dark lens.

"Then I usually say 'oi mate, I reckon you're right, you are the victim here," Crowley said, straightening up.

"What?" Aziraphale blinked.

"Oh come on, Aziraphale, demonic temptations aren't sexy, they're boring as Heaven. It’s all listening to people complain and telling them that against all commonsense they're in the right."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, all at once interested in twisting his pinky ring. "Silly to think demons would go around seducing people."

"Technically that's prohibited by the employee code,” Crowley said. "Supposed to be because it's too easy, but personally I think it’s to save face. I doubt most demons could manage to seduce even a nymphomaniac with a thing for monsters."

Aziraphale gave a too-enthusiastic snort of laughter that made all three of Crowley's cocktail umbrellas tremble.

"I don’t think anyone’s ever tried that on our side," he said when he was able to speak again.

"Are you kidding? Your side go handing out divine ecstasy and have the gall to claim you're not a bunch of perverts like the rest of us."

Aziraphale straightened the ornamental strawberry on the rim of his drink with a stern finger.

"First of all, it’s been centuries since that was considered 'best practice,' and second of all, divine ecstasy is quite different from"— Aziraphale made a gesture like a fountain of unspecified liquid —"oh, you know exactly what I mean."

"Is it, though?" Crowley asked. “I've seen how the humans depicted St.Theresa, she’s always making a face like—"

Crowley’s expression deepened Aziraphale’s blush until it matched the Cosmopolitans at the bar, then the Bay Breezes, and finally settled around the Bloody Marys.[51]

"OK, maybe there are some enjoyable side effects, "Azirnaphale admitted. ”Still, that face was unwarranted."

"No going back now and all that, but I still felt a bit ripped off that I got kicked out of Heaven right before you lot invented _that._ "

Aziraphale fished a chunk of pineapple out of Crowley's drink and chewed it, a smile blooming on his face. He swallowed conspicuously.

"It's all right, my dear boy. You know, I've always believed some things are better done the old-fashioned way."

Crowley gaped at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing mutely like a diffident fish.

"Come on, dear, let's have another round of drinks."

_Gabriel_

The snack bar at the Empyrean was empty when an angel and a demon met there to talk shop.

"Unfashionably early as usual, Gabriel," Beelzebub said by way of greeting.

Gabriel sidled into a booth with the ease of one for whom physical space is a formality. "Lord Beelzebub, I almost didn't recognize you without your trademark cloud of flies," he said, grabbing a napkin and wiping the table to rid it of infinitesimal crumbs.

"Well, zzure, they are my entourage," Beelzebub said, dead-eyed, and Gabriel gave a hollow laugh just on the off chance it had been a joke.

"Would you like anything?" called a voice from behind the counter. Newt was standing shyly next to the case full of soft drinks.

Gabriel rose. "Want anything?"

It turned out that Beelzebub wanted a slice of pizza with a scoop of ice cream on top, which Gabriel refused to order and Newt almost refused to prepare, so it was several minutes before the executives from Heaven and Hell were resettled, Gabriel with his Vitamin Water and Beelzebub with a scoop of butter pecan on top of a greasy carpet of pepperoni-by-the-slice.

Luckily, almost all human food seemed equally nauseating to Gabriel, principles notwithstanding, so he was able to carry on his conversation with relative equanimity.

"Zzzo," Beelzebub began, "you're promoting your primary earthly agent.”

"Yes, " Gabriel said. "Aziraphale has done an exemplary job protecting the earth from your employees, and in Heaven we like to recognize hard work and dedication."

"And?" Beelzebub asked. "There'zz zomething elze."

"Well," Gabriel said, sipping at the fluorescent drink he held, "ethereal leadership has decided that company culture will be more efficiently maintained if agents aren't left on their own too long."

"You think he’zz becoming too human,” Beelzebub said. The mockery was gone from their voice.

"I mean it's not Aziraphale’s fault," Gabriel quickly cut in, "Poor guy hasn't been able to attend a single team building exercise since the 15th Century.” He shook his head, trying to imagine a more tragic fate.

“Well, The Dark Council hazz decided to recall our agent from Earth azz well," Beelzebub took a large spoonful of butter pecan, which contained two wheels of pepperoni. "Zzo you won't have an experienced earth agent against an angel that’zz ztill got her training wings on, if that’zz what you were worried about.”

Gabriel gave a mirthless smile. “I can assure you Aziraphale’s replacement will be very experienced.”

“Thought you lot prided yourselves on being wide-eyed ingenuezz,” Beelzebub needled. “I haven’t picked Crowley’zz replacement yet, but it won’t be hard to find a demon who’zz better at zome of the adminiztrative responsibilitiezz. Getting that demon to fill out expense reports on time izz like pulling fangzz.”[52]

“Earth, I tell you, it does something to professionalism. I tried to hint to Aziraphale that he might want to pack some nicer clothes for this trip—he had no idea I was trying to get him to prepare for the promotion ceremony—and he looked at me like I’d manifested a thousand eyes.”

“Really much more efficient if you juzt have compound lenzezz,” Beelzebub remarked.

“He really has no idea, though,” Gabriel finished the last of his Vitamin Water and threw it into the recycling bin with preternatural ease. “Aziraphale’s going to be _thrilled._ I mean who _doesn’t_ want to go to Heaven?”

“I have no idea whether Crowley will be thrilled or not,” Beelzebub said, and bit into the ice-cream-soaked pizza crust. “But I really don’t care.”

Gabriel’s smartwatch suddenly began a series of tinny Gregorian chants. They sounded less like an expression of religious devotion and more like an expression of finishing Level 999 in an ancient arcade game.

“Gosh, would you look at that, it’s 10:00pm, bedtime already!” he exclaimed, switching off his alarm. “We’re going running early tomorrow. I suppose you demons are all staying up until 4am or whatever, but I’ve got to get the old corporation up and rested.”

Beelzebub looked furtively around.

“If you tell the other demonzz about this I will eviscerate you until even your quintezence begzz for mercy, but I am not that fond of zsaying up until 4am while in possession of a human body,” Beelzebub said. “I am probably going to turn in early and zee if thizz show that Ligur recommended izz any good or not. Apparently it’zz very intellectual.”

“Well that’s a new one,” Gabriel said. “A demon with a responsible bedtime. I approve of that, I really do.”

“I was not kidding about the evisceration.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the approval,” Gabriel said, and something cold in his eyes got a little warmer. “Let’s touch base on Sunday?”

“If we must,” Beelzebub said. They stood up and dropped the entire plate with all its pizza grease and melted butter pecan into the recycling bin, under the sign that said NO FOOD REMNANTS IN THIS BIN.

***

When they left, Newt breathed a sigh of relief behind the counter, and resolved never to eat butter pecan ice cream or pepperoni pizza ever again.

_Aziraphale_

The waves crept up the sand and darted back into the ocean like an indecisive cat weaving back and forth in a doorway. A faint scent of sunscreen lingered in the deepening night. There were fireflies careening lazily through the humidity along the short path back to the Empyrean, glowing romantically. 

Also careening lazily through the humidity was a very drunk angel, who would have vehemently denied any glow or romance.

“It’s that one, the white one with the coconut palms!” Aziraphale called, trying to indicate the correct hotel. He had a sneaking suspicion he was actually pointing at the green one with the canary island palms.

“Can’t see a blessed thing with these glasses, you better be right, angel.”

A noise like a whale clearing its throat sounded, and Crowley and Aziraphale turned to see a glittering cruise ship making its way to the port several miles off. 

“Oh Crowley, look at them!” Aziraphale waved with unwarranted elation as though he had just spotted an old friend from centuries ago returned to life. Crowley made a rude gesture involving two fingers and a swing of his arm that almost toppled him.

“I think that’s what I’d do, if I wasn’t an angel anymore,” Aziraphale said in a dreamy, faraway sort of voice.

“What?” Crowley asked, surprised. “You mean—” he repeated the gesture.

“No, you _ridiculous—_ I think I’d like to go on a voyage across the sea. I could work on a cruise ship, as a magician.” He made a fluttering gesture with his fingers, as though indicating twinkling lights or very sloppy piano playing. “People on ships like that sort of thing, you know.”

“That’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever said.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, then back out to the ocean. A slight breeze picked up, and his voice was barely audible above it. “I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t a demon.”

Aziraphale turned to him. “Well I’m sure you could find something. Many people seem to do awfully well for themselves doing nothing but evil deeds all day.”

“Eh, I’ve never thought I’d do particularly well in finance.”

“You could write a memoir,” Aziraphale suggested, touching Crowley’s elbow and turning them around towards the hotel again. “You have, after all, been through Hell.”

Crowley groaned theatrically.

“Who wants to read about a lousy demon like me, really? I haven’t even got the little pointy horns to show for it.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Just as well, I don’t think they’d suit your features.” He paused. “Although I don’t think I’d mind the tail, all things considered.”

“When you say wouldn’t mind,” Crowley started, “does that mean you’d like—”

“Oh look, here we are!” Aziraphale cried over him, running ahead several paces to open the door to the Empyrean’s cafe.

They were only a few steps inside when Aziraphale gave a squeak and tugged them both backwards, behind a large potted plant.

Gabriel and Beelzebub, deep in hushed conversation, were leaving the cafe. Crowley, vision benighted by his dark glasses, had not seen them.

“The escalator goes both ways!” Aziraphale whispered, frantic.

“What in bloody Heaven does that mean?” Crowley hissed.

“The _code,_ you idiot! Heaven and Hell are here, _our supervisors_ are here!”

“That’s not the right code. We decided, remember, it was ‘someone’s pushed all the elevator buttons.’”

“Oh right, I thought that was stupid so I forgot,” Aziraphale said, a hint of huff creeping in his voice.

“Are they gone?” Crowley asked, crouching low to the ground behind the fiddle leaf fig.

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale said, sinking to the floor himself. “We’d better wait here.”

They sat hunched over and waiting, backs to the potted plant and a scant centimeter between their elbows and knees. It was difficult to measure time as it passed, and that was doubly true when one was unable to read one’s watch in the dark, heavily sleep-deprived, or recently deprived of celestial powers.

There was a loud creak on the floor and Aziraphale gasped. Crowley clapped a hand over his mouth and leaned in with an insistent _shhhh._

Half of a moment went by in which Aziraphale fumed and twisted, trying to dislodge Crowley’s hand. When the other half of the moment came to pass, however, his eyes grew wide and he became limp and pliant, and Crowley’s hand began to tremble and to inch away from Aziraphale’s mouth as if to cup his face—

“Uh, were you guys gonna order something?”

Newt was standing in front of them, holding a bottle of disinfectant spray.

“Sorry to interrupt, I just, uh, well, we’ve got lots of nice rooms to do that sort of stuff upstairs.” 

“Oh, we are not doing stuff of any sort,” Aziraphale said in a hurry, knocking Crowley’s hand away. “Erm, is everyone else here gone?”

Newt’s eyes widened, and he stepped backwards, raising the disinfectant spray as if by instinct.

“I think so—why?”

“Oh, nothing.” Aziraphale stood up and gave a smile as white and glowing as his absent wings. “We’d simply like to order dessert, that’s all.”

“Yeah, big dessert fans, us,” Crowley echoed, rising to his slightly unsteady feet. 

Aziraphale wobbled to the counter, hands held aloft as though he wished to avoid stepping in something unpleasant and slippery.

“Okay,” Newt said. He looked concerned as he slipped back behind the cash register. “We close in five minutes, though, so you’ll have to take it to go. And we’re out of lava cake.”

“Tragedy,” Crowley said to no one in particular.

Newt pulled out a laminated card. “Here’s our Sinful Temptations menu.”

Crowley choked on something that was not quite laughter and Aziraphale put his hand to his heart.

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“It’s a local bakery,” Newt shrugged. “Always thought it was kind of a cheesy name.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Aziraphale scanned the menu. “I’ll have a creme brulee.”

“Feeling decadent, are we angel?” Crowley whispered.

“Oh shut up. It’ll probably be awful.”

Newt returned from the kitchen with a large and rather sad-looking ramekin of custard and sugar crust. There was a fissure in the caramelized top.

“Sorry, hope that’s okay,” he tapped on the cash register and ignored Aziraphale’s expression, which indicated that it fell somewhat short of okay. “It’s the last one. You can put the ramekin and the spoon in the dish return outside.” 

“Very well, have a wonderful evening, my dear.” Aziraphale paid, wincing a little as he pulled out his card, which was quite literally Heaven-sent. Possession of the ethereal credit card tended to tamp down on Aziraphale’s natural liberality about as much as access to Hell’s accounts engendered a spirit of boundless generosity in Crowley.

The lobby was too bright and public, the breakfast nook too exposed to various corridors, and their actual hotel room off-limits many times over, so Aziraphale and Crowley drifted tipsily into an unlocked conference room and only turned on one light. Crowley took off his sunglasses and hooked them into the front of his shirt.

“Creme brulee is honestly an extraordinary dessert,” Aziraphale said, making a curlicue in the air with the spoon. “Quite a fabrication.”

“Tell me about your fabrication, angel.” Crowley had wandered to a wall-mounted whiteboard and was peeling off the ‘Washable’ stickers from the dry-erase markers.

“You temper sugar and eggs with hot cream,” Aziraphale explained, and it was perhaps lucky for Crowley that he could not see Aziraphale’s first rapturous bite. “Add a pinch of vanilla, of course.”

“Naturally.” Crowley picked up a handful of Sharpies from the table and began affixing the ‘Washable’ stickers.

“Then you have a choice,” Aziraphale said, eyes lighting up like votives at an altar. “You can place a circle of caramel on top of your creation, or you can sprinkle it with sugar and broil it until the caramel forms.”

“I always admire what humans will do for the sake of pleasure,” Crowley said, in a tone of voice that wanted very badly to be offhand. He frowned slightly. “You know, you’ve got a bit of creme brulee right there.” He indicated Aziraphale’s left index finger.

Aziraphale was not paying attention and hadn’t heard him. He said suddenly, “Oh, I’m being rude, aren’t I? Would you like some?”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a puzzled look, then, as Aziraphale’s other hand reached for the teaspoon to provide a bite of custard, he lunged clumsily forward and took Aziraphale’s custard-splotched finger into his mouth.[53]

Aziraphale yelped as though a feather had just been plucked unceremoniously from his wing. It was a wet, soft sort of squeeze, and there was a flicker around the very tip of his finger. He stared at Crowley’s lips against his knuckle as Crowley stared back from behind the safety of his sunglasses.[54] Aziraphale made a brief motion as if to pull away, but there was something enticing about the pressure that made it hard to move at all. He wiggled his finger a little deeper into Crowley’s mouth, hoping it was a venial sin.

Anyway, he reasoned as Crowley began to suck in earnest, they had only one spoon, and it was highly improper to share flatware with a demon.

The heat and pressure on Aziraphale’s finger was encouraging other sensations of heat and pressure elsewhere, and he was beginning to squirm. When he felt an especially enthusiastic flick against his fingertip, he gasped, and the gasp became a whine as Crowley’s long, flexible tongue wrapped once, twice, then three times around his finger. 

Crowley pulled back and looked at him with yellow, questioning eyes. His mouth was wet. And open.

“That’s a pretty nice dessert,” Crowley said in a hoarse voice. 

“How do you _do_ that?” Aziraphale asked, hardly audible. 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, with a touch of desperation, “but—really, angel—anytime, any place you’d like.” His eyes skated across Aziraphale’s body and came back to rest on his face.

Slowly, without breaking his gaze, Crowley reached over and stuck his own finger into the ramekin Aziraphale was holding, withdrawing a blob of creme brulee with a few caramel shards clinging to it. He held it just below Aziraphale’s chin, face frightened, plaintive. 

“Would you, er, do you want—?” 

Aziraphale wanted.

Technically speaking, there is nothing in Heaven’s employee manual that prohibits an angel from enveloping a demon’s finger with his lips and tongue and causing that demon’s head to roll back and mouth to drop open in anticipated pleasure, in much the same way that there is no country on earth that legally prohibits its citizens turning into a dragon and barbecuing passerby. 

As Aziraphale tried to convince himself that the moaning sounds Crowley was making were reasonably quiet and Crowley tried to convince himself that he was not just having one of his favorite recurring dreams, the door to the conference room clicked open.

Dagon walked in, wearing pajamas covered in cartoon sharks and carrying a cup of microwaveable noodles.

“Um, Crowley?”

There was a wet, indelicate noise as Crowley withdrew his finger from Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Hi—Dagon, hi, so good to see you, was just—” Crowley started stammering.

“Did that angel just bite you, Crowley?” Dagon asked. She crunched on a spoonful of noodles. They had not been microwaved. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale blundered. “yes, I’m afraid I did, I know we’re not supposed to be fighting, but there was a misunderstanding, you see, we got into an altercation, and next thing you know—well, you know.”

“What he said,” Crowley mumbled, hastily replacing his sunglasses.

Dagon lifted her chin and looked at Crowley’s lenses and then Aziraphale’s enormous, frightened eyes. A smile distorted her face like a warp in woodwork.

“You absolutely pathetic demon, Crowley. Can’t believe you got bit by an angel on the second day here. Go to bed before you discorporate from sheer incompetence, moron.”

“Thanks Dagon,” Crowley said with, too much relief in his voice for a successful snarl.

“Oh, and Crowley?” Dagon’s eyes shone with the eerieness of creatures who have been raised in the absence of sunlight. “If you don’t want me to mention to the Prince of Hell that you almost had your hand bitten off by an angel, I’d suggest you get cracking on that outstanding expense report.”

Crowley made the kind of pained assenting noise typically extracted at knifepoint. 

“Anyway,” Dagon lifted another spoonful of dry noodles and shot Aziraphale a revolted look. “Better hope angels don’t carry rabies.”

Crowley’s hand twitched. Aziraphale glared at Dagon with more venom than Crowley’s fangs had ever contained, and the Lord of the Files withdrew.

“We’re doomed,” Crowley said when Dagon was safely out of earshot. “I’m done for, she’s going to say something, someone in Hell is going to put the pieces together, it’s over for me, they’ll make an overpriced handbag from my skin if I’m lucky.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started to say.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into it angel, I didn’t, I don’t, honest, I just like the faces you make when I do that tongue thing, you know I don’t want anyone to hurt you—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began again.

“You know—I really, sometimes I think about just running away. You ever think about it? Maybe we could live in the ocean, or in that part of Purgatory no one ever vacuums, or in the fucking stars—fuck, I shouldn’t say ‘we,’ should I, see that’s part of the problem—”

“ _Crowley._ ”

Aziraphale took two steps forward and held Crowley’s face between his hands. “Crowley, dear, please calm down and don’t go into hiding in Purgatory.”

It was as though Aziraphale had broken a circuit: Crowley stopped stammering and lifted his left hand slowly to cover Aziraphale’s right. 

“Listen, Crowley, no one knows anything, just do your expense report,” Aziraphale bit his lip. “And we’ll be more _careful,_ won’t we? There can’t be any more of this, this, _corporeal fondness._ ”

Crowley abruptly stopped stroking the back of Aziraphale’s wrist with his thumb and gave a dejected nod.

“Right then. Why don’t you go up first and I’ll return the dishes and follow after ten minutes?”

They separated. Aziraphale straightened the cuffs of his jacket and smoothed the front of his shirt as though there had been a much more intense exchange.

“Night, angel.”

“Goodnight dear, and we’ll make sure it’s all right.”

Crowley gave a lengthy sigh. 

“I sure hope I make a nice handbag.”

**Footnotes**

37 That was just about the only thing sleeping was good for, in Aziraphale’s opinion: it allowed one to depart in a fit of pique, not only from company, but from consciousness itself, which seemed rather more emphatic.  [ return to text ]

38 Hastur and Ligur had stumbled upon a channel that played music videos all night, but were under the impression they were watching a network drama. They were trying to piece together the plot and had only managed to work out that it involved lots of nightclubs and bodily undulations.  [ return to text ]

39 As a worker of miracles, Aziraphale found that the trick to facing down impossible things was firm eye contact and a total lack of flinching.  [ return to text ]

40 Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, the toast in question had in fact displayed a perfect image of the Son. Heaven had been experimenting with a new direct marketing strategy. That particular campaign had been abandoned, partially because it led to humans creating and selling false toast prophets, but also because it meant images of the Son were highly prone to being slathered in butter and marmalade and preserves and consumed as part of a more or less balanced breakfast.  [ return to text ]

41 With his sleep-deprived brain, Aziraphale began to marshal a list of reasons he was totally unqualified to bear another Child of God. Even aside from the biological imperatives, he was pretty sure an angel bearing such a Child was a policy violation of apocalyptic proportions, and he thought himself wildly unsuited for parenthood of any description.

Very privately, he also thought it seemed contrary to the spirit of the thing that the virginity of the chosen vessel should rest on a teetering pile of technicalities, untimely interruptions, and let’s-forget-about-Viennas.  [ return to text ]

42 Aziraphale sometimes asked Crowley what he dreamed about.

“Boring stuff, really boring. Worse than queueing up at Sainsbury’s. You wouldn’t be interested.”  [ return to text ]

43 The demons were debating the merits of individually-packaged jellies as a method for the encouragement of gluttony.  [ return to text ]

44 Not to mention getting used to days and amounts such as 30. How large was 30, really? Aziraphale would have been hard pressed to say whether it was very small or tantamount to infinity.  [ return to text ]

45 Curiously, even since that week in 1998, the ATMs in the surrounding county refused to dispense cash in any denomination but pennies. Haunted by a demon, the locals joked.  [ return to text ]

46 “There is that water fountain outside the Dark Council chambers, third from left,” Eric whispered to Crowley. “Since a hundred and thirty years ago, if you drink out of it, you feel like your face is dissolving and the world turns all these interesting colors.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, frowning. “I think it’s because of that chemical waste drip they never got around to fixing.”

“Well that explains a lot about the 1890s,” Crowley said. “I’d started to wonder what they were putting in the cocaine.”  [ return to text ]

47 He had once convinced Aziraphale to come to the club under its former, less garish incarnation as The Green Room.

“Well I must say, if I wanted to shout at you for two hours we could have accomplished that much more easily by discussing who was at fault for the Peloponnesian War.” Aziraphale bristled with affronted dignity.

“Angel, it’s not my fault you asked for a wine list and didn’t listen to the bloody music.”

“I mean what was that supposed to be, anyway? It sounded like a din got into a dreadful fight with a cacophony.”

“I’m never taking you anywhere again,” Crowley swore.

One week later, Crowley paid for lunch at Wiltons.  [ return to text ]

48 Internet clickbait was invented by humans, not Hell, but it had done more for the encouragement of Sloth than anything except video streaming, so it made an attractive project for demons eyeing their end of year bonuses. Eric and Crowley had collaborated on a series of interconnected videos designed to keep a curious clicker enthralled for hours. Standout entries included MY iPHONE IS HAUNTED, CAN MY PET SNAKE TELL TIME?, and READING MEAN COMMENTS IN PARSELTONGUE.  [ return to text ]

49 After a century in which they did not meet, and following the consumption of some rather potent cherry wine on the occasion of their reunion, Crowley hugged Aziraphale so tightly that Aziraphale began to worry that he’d accidentally activated some kind of latent python instinct.  [ return to text ]

50 It’s a bit counterintuitive, but angels can be counted on to have visited a good deal of less than reputable establishments. After all, part of holding fast the forces of virtue means going where virtue is only loosely tethered.  [ return to text ]

51 Aziraphale immediately recognized Crowley’s divine ecstasy face from a number of occasions during which he himself had enjoyed some ecstatic feelings of the diabolical variety.  [ return to text ]

52 “Crowley,” Beelzebub said, “Thiz expense izz for a yacht.”

“I’m starting an inheritance dispute, OK?” Crowley said, irritated.

“Crowley thizz better not be like that request for an azzignment in Mallorca.”

“It’s not, I swear. Come on, has there ever been someone with a yacht who _didn’t_ go to Hell?”

“That remindzz me,” Beelzebub said. “Deny the propozal for a boating club on the lake of fire, would you? Too much liability.”  [ return to text ]

53 Crowley was under the distinct and mistaken impression that it was being offered. He was rather shocked at Aziraphale’s forwardness, but equally loathe to pass up an opportunity to lick Aziraphale under the shelter of plausible, if far-fetched, deniability.  [ return to text ]

54 Comprehension dawned on Crowley, and he realized that he’d made a significant miscalculation, but then Aziraphale grabbed a fistful of his hair, and comprehension promptly set again.  [ return to text ]


	5. The Devil May Care Very Deeply

_ Aziraphale  _

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s worst hangover. That lamentable title belonged to a Sunday in 1826, following the consumption of a delectable homemade genepi liqueur in vessels of inadvisable circumference.

He drank so much that night that he actually fell asleep, and awoke on a chaise-lounge with a headache worthy of inclusion in a torturer’s arsenal. His memory, however, was uncompromised, and to his mortification he could recall the exact sequence of the previous night’s events. These events included the loss of his coin purse and one of his shoes, and the addition of a confiscated dueling pistol and a half-dressed demon splayed across his chest.[55]

But if nothing quite compared to that ignominious day in 1826, Aziraphale nonetheless awoke feeling like a teabag that had been steeped, pressed, and left to dessicate in an abandoned mug.

“Are you OK, Aziraphale? You look sick.”

Uriel was standing at the foot of the bed, wearing a puzzled expression and the  _ On the Side of the Angels  _ shirt that had come in Heaven’s gift bags.

“Mmmfghh,” Aziraphale supplied, and rolled over to face away from the window, which possessed the galling insolence to be sunny.

“Sorry?” 

“I’m—I’m perfectly all right. Just slept a bit poorly.” He tried to smile, but his facial muscles staged a rebellion against such oppression.

“I was asleep before you got back, you must have been up late,” Uriel said. “You’d better get a move on, the afternoon’s free today but we’re going for a run in twenty minutes.”

“A  _ what? _ ”

“A run. Running. It’s the thing humans do when they need to locomote quickly.” She mimed a sprint.

“Yes, I  _ know  _ that, but why are we doing it?”

Uriel shrugged. “Gabriel and Michael think running builds moral character. And it’s a thing humans do.”

Aziraphale was tempted to give a waspish reply about how humans also lazed around on comfortable furniture eating greasy kebabs and watching reruns of  _ Love Island, _ but he refrained.

“I don’t have any clothes designed for—strenuous recreation,” Aziraphale said.

“What? Don’t be silly, you’ve got this same shirt.” Uriel indicated herself. “I designed it specifically for today’s program. We’re going to take a group picture afterwards and put it on the official Instagram.”

_ Group picture  _ and  _ official Instagram  _ were two phrases that made Aziraphale cringe enough when uttered separately; in the same sentence they provoked notions of abandoning Earth entirely for some less populated planet.

Aziraphale was, nonetheless, a creature of immense discipline. He employed his astonishing self-control every time Gabriel uttered a blatant redundancy, lest he say something rude to his supervisor. He used it every time he had the urge to perform some too-helpful miracle, lest he receive a write-up for injudicious blessings. And he invoked it every time Crowley did something infuriating and attractive, lest he launch himself upon his eternal enemy and snog him to kingdom come.[56]

That morning, Aziraphale used every ounce of his considerable self-control to avoid retching into the bathroom sink. 

_ This will be fine,  _ he told himself.  _ It’s just like walking, only faster, and with a horrific headache and a very stupid shirt. _ He stared at his reflection in the mirror and uttered a silent and less than dignified prayer.

***

“Let’s go, team! Where are those angelic faces?”

Gabriel was jogging up and down a line of angels, who were variously stretching, yawning, and adjusting their earphones.[57]

“What a beautiful day! Truly God’s world is magnificent.” Gabriel shook his head as if in wonder. “I mean it looks great even in close-up!”

Sandalphon pointed at Gabriel and nodded significantly at the assembled angels. Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried to imagine the contents of his stomach remaining inside that organ for the duration of the run.

“We’re only doing a quick three miles,” Michael announced. “Now, you may not be used to this type of rigor in a physical form. Remember, if you feel like giving up, just think of Paradise and you will find the strength to continue.”

Aziraphale endeavoured to follow this instruction, but under the full sun of mid-morning, all he could think was that the Almighty would have done very well not to let there be any light whatsoever.

“This is going to be so fun!” Ithuriel chirped to Aziraphale’s left. He looked radiant, handsome, and sober. “Hey, are you doing all right? No offense, but you look awful.”

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Aziraphale insisted. “Just didn’t sleep all that well.”

“Oh, that happens to me too when I’ve been drinking too much,” Ithuriel said with pointed sagacity. “I usually down a liter of Holy Water the next day, although I’ve heard dog hair also works. Seems weird.”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered what exactly Ithuriel thought was proper conduct for an angel. He had little time to speculate, for Gabriel shouted “GO!” and the angels took off on the paved track around the hotel’s golf course.

Every step was difficult, each jolt a serious risk of vomiting up a slurry of strawberry-margarita-flavored shame. Aziraphale felt winded almost immediately, but he was much less concerned with trying to maintain a competitive or even reasonable pace than he was with not losing control of his nausea.

_ Think of Paradise and find the strength to continue, _ he could hear Michael saying. Aziraphale thought about the times he had been most content, starting at the very beginning[58] looking out upon Eden from the eastern wall. The world had been one verdant promise of peace and clear skies. There was a charming couple living among the waterfalls and forests, and an enormous serpent that became all at once a winged man—

_ None of that, not now, _ Aziraphale reprimanded himself, striving to ignore the stabbing pain in his side as he kept running. Must have been a mile already at least, mustn’t it?  _ Think of something else, something pleasant. _

Aziraphale tried to conjure memories of illuminated manuscripts, the opening nights of splendid operas, starry skies in the days when light pollution was scarcely imaginable. He tried to concentrate on these pleasantries and ignore his own ragged breathing and screaming ribs. 

He could see Crowley swinging off a desk at Trinity College scoffing about  _ prayer books with pretty pictures. _ Crowley at the next box over, making fun of his opera glasses and repeating the most salacious lines of the libretto in terrible Italian. Crowley lying beside him in a dark field and getting quiet and hoarse-voiced when talking about the constellations.

“We did it! Give yourselves a good pat on the wings!”

Aziraphale returned to the present. He was standing at the far end of the golf course, next to a group of slightly winded angels and a beaming Gabriel. The run was over. Michael was passing out water bottles and looks of begrudging approval.

“Now I want you all to remember that humans do this  _ every single day, _ ” Gabriel emphasized. “You’ve all got this afternoon off, but we’ll be gathered back at 5:30 for dinner and an announcement about promotions I’m sure you’re all eager to hear.”

_ Well that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about, _ Aziraphale thought.

_ Crowley  _

“Doesn’t this thing go any hotter?”

Hastur scowled at the temperature indicator at the side of the hot tub. “Crowley, you said this was going to be like the sulfur pools.” There was something petulant in his voice.

Crowley was sipping on a Bloody Mary and leaning so far back against the concrete side of the hot tub that hardly any of his neck was visible above the water. His sunglasses were completely fogged. (Of course, since he was sitting next to Hastur in a swimsuit, perhaps he ought to thank Satan for small curses.)

“Right,  _ like _ the sulfur pools, Hastur, not identical. We can’t make it any hotter, it’s got safety features.”

“How awful.” Ligur made a horrified expression like the kind ordinary people displayed when they came upon rotting carcasses or exceptionally bad kerning. 

“Can I have your celery, Crowley?” Eric asked, eyeing the Bloody Mary.

“No.”

The demons were arrayed in a small hot tub next to the infinity pool. Hell was reconvening all staff for dinner, but until then they were left with nothing more taxing on their agenda than “unstructured malevolence.” Hastur, Ligur, Eric, and Crowley were spending that time frightening other hotel guests away from the jacuzzi.[59]

“Well,” Hastur heaved a sigh. “Shall we recount the deeds of the night?”

“I think we all know what kind of night Crowley had,” Ligur said.

Crowley felt something twist in his stomach, and was unable to tell whether it was fear or fermenting pineapple. He took another sip of the Bloody Mary to cover all bases before he answered.

“Look, I’m sorry for tripping over your suitcase and waking you up, OK guys?”

Hastur crossed his arms. “Crowley, I swear to Satan, the only thing worse than listening to you stumble around drunk at one-thirty in the morning is listening to you having a go at yourself when you think no one can hear at one- _ fifty  _ in the morning—”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond.

“—and  _ don’t  _ try to pretend you were ‘washing your hands,’ no one washes their hands for twenty minutes making that stupid whining sound.”

“How the fuck would you know, Hastur, you’ve never washed anything in your entire life,” Crowley grumbled.

“ _ Anyway, _ ” Eric cut in, scooting a little further from Hastur in the confines of the hot tub, “If we’re still talking deeds of the night, I met someone cool at that weird avocado toast place down the street. Might try to tempt him later.”

"Oh come on Eric, don't be that demon, you can't just pass off your personal life as temptations for the sin of Lust," Ligur said.

"Asmodeus does it all the time," Eric muttered.

Hastur made a disgruntled sound.

"Asmodeus is a lazy git, do you know how many fucking times he's deferred eternal judgment duty?"

Crowley, who had deferred every eternal judgment summons under increasingly spurious justifications, shook his head in a semblance of disapproval.

“Well,” Eric said. “He was cool, at any rate. Not my usual type.”

“You mean not a shallow idiot with long eyelashes?” Hastur asked.

“Er, I don’t know what to say to that. But he’s not in town long, I don’t know.”

“I tried to tempt that Newt idiot at the front desk to give in to rage by dropping hints that his computer was purposefully working against him,” Ligur said. “You know how easily people get upset about technology.”[60]

“How did that go?” Crowley asked.

“Not that well.” Ligur frowned. “He just said ‘yeah, I think you’re probably right.’”

Hastur, in an act of presumably sympathetic violence, clapped Ligur’s shoulder with excessive force.

“Let’s get out of this tepid bowl of water and get some lunch.”

Ligur nodded. Eric exhaled at length and turned to Crowley.

“Are you getting out of the water for lunch, or are you going to stay here until you get heatstroke?”

“The heatstroke one.”

“OK, have fun,” Eric said, lifting himself from the tub and grabbing a towel. As the other three demons dried off, Crowley leaned just a bit further back in the hot water and made the concerted effort to close his eyelids.

_ Aziraphale _

Ithuriel, had a remarkable, perhaps literally God-given ability to carry on a conversation with no one but himself. As Aziraphale tried to focus on not letting his legs seize up completely on the way to the beach from a shower at the hotel, he was immensely grateful for such a gift. Nodding just enough to justify Ithuriel’s continued speculation about which angel would be promoted and how that might affect the allotment of corner offices, he lifted his aching neck and spotted a familiar copper head poking above the water in a hot tub.

“I think we’d better turn around, Ithuriel,” Aziraphale said, halting and catching Ithuriel by one perfectly sculpted arm.

“Why? We’re free until dinner.”

“I, er, I think I saw a snake somewhere around here.” Aziraphale had never been very good at improvisation. The one and only weak point in his magic act, he had the humility to admit.

“Really? Gross. I just see, oh, what’s his name, the angel with the red hair? We met in Rome.” Ithuriel waved at Crowley with frantic, unwarranted enthusiasm.

“I really don’t think this is the time, he might be sleeping,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Oh my gosh, then we have to get his attention, he’s gonna drown. Theoretically, I  _ do  _ know CPR."

“I’m quite sure that won’t be necessary.” Aziraphale did not relish the prospect of watching Crowley receive mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a paragon of celestial beauty.

“Hey, other angel!” Ithuriel called.

Crowley started and looked wildly around for an unseen angel, so violently he almost spilled his Bloody Mary.

“I’m so glad to see you again!” Ithuriel approached the edge of the hot tub. “I feel like I never run into you Upstairs. I’m so sorry, but I don’t remember your name. I’m Ithuriel.”

Aziraphale had followed Ithuriel and gave a definitive shake of his head, willing Crowley to suddenly remember an appointment he had to keep with an urgent medical emergency. Crowley looked over Ithuriel’s shoulder at Aziraphale and his confusion turned into a wicked, all-too-familiar grin that unfurled across his face.

“Course, yeah, just terrific to see you again, Ithuriel. ‘M not in the office much. Trying out the remote working thing, you know, gotta capitalize on those commuter benefits.”

Aziraphale wanted very badly to be annoyed at Crowley for playing into Ithuriel’s delusion, but he was too busy noticing that Crowley had sidled up the edge of the hot tub, and had gone from barely holding his head above water to stretching as much as possible above it. Chlorinated water raced in drips down his pale chest, and a faint trail of red hair beckoned Aziraphale’s gaze to follow. Aziraphale had very little vanity, but it occurred to him at once that he would have preferred to meet a wet, half-naked Crowley when he was neither hungover nor splotch-faced from recent exertion. Also, if given the choice for such an encounter he would have preferred not wearing swim trunks with swordfish on them.

“What’s your name, then?” Ithuriel asked.

A look of total panic crossed Crowley’s face.

“My name? Right—of course—mine. My name is, er—Caramel.”

Aziraphale wiped his face with the palm of one hand.  _ Please, God, let Armageddon arrive soon. _

“Caramel?” Ithuriel asked. “Like the candy?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “They, uh, named the candy after me. Because I’m so appetizing, I guess.” He rolled his head back to reveal an expanse of neck and flashed Aziraphale an enormous smile.

“I see you’re recovering from a rough night in the healthiest way possible,  _ Caramel, _ ” Aziraphale shot back, indicating the Bloody Mary.

“What? I’m eating vegetables!” Crowley tapped a stalk of celery in his drink.

“What is that?” Ithuriel asked, a tiny crease appearing in the perfect symmetry of his face.

“Just a little hair of the dog.”

“ _ That’s  _ what dog hair turns into when it’s off of a dog? Wow, it looks just like celery in red juice.”

“Ithuriel I really think we should be going—” Aziraphale started.

“Hey can we climb in too?” Ithuriel asked, already stripping off his vest and kicking off his sandals at an unsuspecting hibiscus plant.

Crowley made a nervous, noncommittal grunt that Ithuriel took for a yes. 

“Ooh, wow, the water’s warm,” Ithuriel remarked, carving small waves with his lovely hands.

“That’s why they call it a hot tub, yes,” Aziraphale said, fuming. “Move over, Ithuriel.”

Aziraphale tried to avoid looking at Crowley as he took off his linen jacket and shirt, but he was not entirely successful. Crowley’s eyes were occluded by his sunglasses and all the condensation upon them, but Aziraphale thought he could see Crowley following the progress of his careful unbuttoning. He slid into the water between Ithuriel and Crowley, flinching a bit at the onset of heat.

“Just like the Turkish baths at Jermyn Street all over again, isn’t it?” Crowley said, stirring one finger in the water with maddening deliberation.

“We are  _ not  _ talking about that now,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms.

“What? I’m just referring to the time we had to break up a notorious den of vice. You know, as on assignment together.  _ As angels. _ ” Crowley’s satisfied grin was as unendurable as his shoulder’s proximity.

“Hey, I have a question for you guys, since we’re all angels here,” Ithuriel said.

Crowley leaned even closer. “Ooh, yeah, let’s talk about angel stuff.”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a look so withering no amount of verbal abuse could have revived a plant in its path.

Ithuriel took a deep breath. “OK, so. What would you do if you fancied a demon?”

Despite the warmth of the hot tub, Aziraphale felt as though he’d been doused in ice water. Crowley choked on his Bloody Mary and set it on the pool deck in order to vehemently cough into both hands.

“I’m sorry, Ithuriel did you say—?” Aziraphale stammered. He was beginning to regret inserting himself between Ithuriel and Crowley almost as keenly as he regretted his fourth margarita.

Ithuriel bit the lip that had inspired six villanelles, four sonnets, and one horribly sentimental sestina. “I know that’s really weird, but have you ever wondered?” 

“Absolutely not,” he lied. “Ithuriel, they’re the enemy!”

“I know,” Ithuriel sighed. He hesitated. “But, doesn’t that make it kind of appealing? Because it’s forbidden?”

Crowley, recovered from his coughing, drew the celery out of his drink and gave it a suggestive bite, looking at Aziraphale. “Look, Ithuriel, you’re absolutely right. I for one  _ completely understand  _ the attraction to the forbidden. Really makes our jobs tough, doesn’t it? As angels?”

“I swear to God…” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley as quietly and lethally as he could.

“Really, Ithuriel, don’t worry. Lots of people like a bit of a bad boy. It’s only natural to be tempted.” Crowley was looking at Ithuriel, but speaking very close to Aziraphale’s ear.

“Still, even if, let’s say, one did have—warm feelings—for a demon, one would be  _ extremely unwise  _ to pursue anything,” Aziraphale said through his teeth.

“You’re probably right.” Ithuriel’s magnificent head drooped. “I dunno, I talked to a demon yesterday at this weird bread and avocado restaurant down the street, and I just felt...I dunno, more of a connection, or something? Sometimes angels can be awfully cold.”

Aziraphale felt a sudden stricture in his stomach not attributable to any quantity of margaritas. Crowley’s mouth compressed into a thin line.

“Plus, demons are probably like, really great at sex, right?” Ithuriel added.

Crowley let out a raucous cackle. Aziraphale felt his face heating far beyond the safety features in the hot tub were supposed to allow.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. What do you think, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, with the worst simulacrum of innocence Aziraphale had ever witnessed.

“I have  _ no idea  _ why you’d think to ask me something so shocking. That’s—there are no words to describe the  _ depravity _ —”

“That good, huh?” Crowley grinned.

“—speaking purely as a matter of abhorrent speculation. I can hardly bear to think of such a thing.”[61]

“Sorry, Aziraphale, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Ithuriel said. “I guess that is pretty horrific.”

“Nah, I bet some demons are a terrific shag,” Crowley said. “Probably a few of ‘em know how to make an angel sing a different kind of praise, if you get what I mean.”

“We get it, Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped.

“I don’t get it at all,” Ithuriel said. “Are there  _ two  _ meanings in that sentence?”

“All right, that’s enough,” Aziraphale stood, sloshing water. “I need to get something to eat.” He hauled himself from the water. 

“Great, I’ll text the other angels to come over here, it’s so nice.” Ithuriel picked up his phone and started tapping.

“Uh, think I’d better get a bite as well,” Crowley said. “Lovely seeing you, Ithuriel, good luck seducing a demon.”

“Bye Caramel!” Ithuriel said, waving.

Aziraphale refrained from looking at Crowley climbing out of the hot tub as he carefully toweled himself off and slung his shirt and jacket around his shoulders. But he noted that Crowley seemed to be cold; he kept his towel wrapped around his head as they walked back across the pool deck.

When they were out of earshot, Aziraphale rounded on him.

“Caramel? Really?”

“Not my best, I know, I was on the spot. I dunno, it sounds angel-y.”

“What on  _ earth  _ were you thinking? I don’t want Ithuriel to get himself hauled before a committee of Archangels because you told him demons make wonderful lovers.” 

“Look, I think I know the demon he’s talking about, and that guy’s not an idiot. If they want to go out to brunch and get introduced in the biblical sense, that’s their affair.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself. “An angel and a demon? It’ll never work.”

Crowley sighed, and seemed to deflate under his thick, fluffy towel.

“Yeah,” he said to the tile. “You would say that, wouldn’t you.”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale reached forward.

But Crowley had already turned away and walked to the door, clutching his towel around his head like the robes of some long-ago saint.

***

Heaven’s promotion announcement dinner occupied one-half of the formal dining room at the Empyrean, ringed by motivational posters. PTO = PRODUCTIVITY, TEAMWORK, OPTIMISM one read. One angel was putting extra tape on a corner of DON’T FEAR TO TREAD. Another said YOU HAD ME AT HALO. 

The cut-carrot garnish was by far the best part of the meal, and Aziraphale was just about prepared to write off the Empyrean’s culinary offerings entirely. The chicken was utilitarian at best, the potatoes were greyish and gluey, and the salad was as painfully overdressed as a man wearing a tailcoat to a picnic.[62] Still, Aziraphale smiled at the catering staff in Ballroom A with just as much gratitude as if they had brought him the most succulent delicacies on earth. 

The Archangels were doing a soundcheck while the rest of the host was beginning dinner; the announcement was scheduled to conclude just prior to the dessert, and coincide exactly with the pouring of champagne. Aziraphale was glad to have the intermittent noise from the stage; his lackluster dinner was insufficient distraction from some unwelcome musings. 

His mind’s eye was doing a frankly terrible job not lingering on the memory of Crowley lounging in the hot tub, and his thoughts were doggedly replaying last night’s episode of Crowley sucking creme brulee off of his finger.[63] Most distressingly, he couldn’t stop thinking of Crowley’s dejection at his own gloomy outlook on angel/demon relationships. 

“You OK, Aziraphale? You’re not eating your vinegar leaves.”

“It’s called salad, Ithuriel,” Aziraphale said. “Once again, I’m perfectly fine.”

“You know, everyone thinks Zephon is getting the promotion, but I bet it’s going to be you.”

Aziraphale smiled at Ithuriel over the mostly-depleted pitcher. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had the same post for more than six millennia, I’m not about to go anywhere.”

Ithuriel shrugged and picked up the menu card. 

“Oh, hey, look, they’re serving creme brulee for dessert!”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and poured himself a very tall glass of ice water.

_ Crowley _

In Ballroom B, Eric was quote-tweeting his way into a controversy and picking at the dry chicken. Crowley was stabbing at his salad with significantly less enthusiasm than he normally displayed when impaling plants.

“Hey, Crowley, don’t be so mopey,” Eric said, looking up from @69hellfiya69’s exploding mentions. “You’re not seriously upset cause you’re not going to get promoted?”

“Thanks for that vote of professional confidence, Eric.” Crowley leaned back in his chair so the front legs were no longer touching the carpeting.

“Oh, Satan, no, are you still moping about that guy?”

Crowley let his chair clunk forward. “Look, not all of us get over things instantly.”

“For Hell’s sake Crowley, get it together. You’re still a great catch, whatever this idiot thinks.”

Crowley mumbled something inarticulate and dismissive.

“You are! You’re, er, funny. In that ‘makes people want to punch you in the face’ sort of way.”

“Real helpful, Eric.”

Eric searched for more straightforwardly positive qualities. “You...have really nice collarbones.”

Crowley was full of both self-deprecation and self-pity, but he knew an ironclad argument when he heard one. “It’s true,” he admitted. “I do.”

“And hey,” Eric said, grinning. “You have literally no gag reflex, that’s got to be a plus.”

Crowley froze with his fork poised mid-stab over a piece of radicchio.

“How do you know that?”

“You had six appletinis and bragged about it to all of Hell, so Hastur dared you to swallow an orange whole. It took like, three minutes.”

Crowley sighed and slid his face into his hands. “Well I guess that explains why I hate cointreau.”

“Yeahhh,” Eric said. “I haven’t been able to eat an orange since then either.”

_ Aziraphale _

Elgar’s  _ Sea Pictures  _ quieted as Gabriel stepped up to the microphone stand. “Good evening, angels! I want to take a moment to thank you all for how great this retreat has been so far. Truly, I feel blessed—and I’m talking even more than usual. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

The angels clapped politely. In the front row, Sandalphon was applauding Gabriel’s introduction as though trying to bring about an encore all by himself.

“You know,” Gabriel said, walking stage left, “we spend most of our time in Heaven, but I think it’s so important that we take the time to reconnect with each other in the other place that’s really central to our work: the Earth. At least once every 300 years, right?” He smiled and pointed at Sandalphon, who finger-gunned back. Michael, off to the side, made a hurry-up gesture and mouthed something that looked like ‘still have the slideshow.’

Aziraphale, seeking something more entertaining to pay attention to, turned back to his gluey potatoes. Ithuriel was staring transfixed at Gabriel while trying to cut a piece of chicken; he was off by several inches and only succeeded in shredding his cloth napkin with a serrated knife.

“It is my obligation, but more importantly, my profound honor, to present this promotion to an angel whose dedication to the righteous cause of Heaven is unwavering, whose contribution to our client-centered model is invaluable, and whose patience is an example to us all.”

Idly, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was picking at the same unsatisfactory dinner, getting bored with essentially the same speech. Probably he was not listening to Elgar.

“Now, before I announce the name of the angel of the hour, I’d like to take a moment to say to him what all angels say when they appear before the virtuous. Can someone tell me what that is?” Gabriel held out the mic towards the crowd.

Sandalphon raised his hand at once.

“Yeah, Sandman, hit us.”

“That would be ‘congratulations.’”

“No, not quite, that’s what you say when the virtuous arrive  _ in  _ Heaven, I’m talking about when they’re still alive.”

Sandalphon looked mortified. Michael’s eye roll was visible from the audience.

“Yes, Ithuriel?”

Ithuriel put down his hand. “Is it ‘hey, you wanna experience Heaven?’” 

“Uh, no, it’s definitely  _ not  _ that, that’s an HR violation.”

“Oh shucks,” Ithuriel said in a lowered voice to Aziraphale, “I’ve been saying that for years. I feel like it works really well.”

“Well, uh, what I was looking for was ‘be not afraid.’ And that’s what I’d like to tell this angel. Be not afraid. It’s a big opportunity, and I hope you embrace it.”

Aziraphale was getting so bored he considered simply trying not to think of Crowley instead of trying to deny that he was trying not to think of Crowley.

_ Crowley _

Dagon unwound a long cord and switched on a microphone. “OK demons, it’s time to announce the promotion before we let you get back to your alcohol. The demon I’m about to recognize has been a credit to Hell and has truly lowered us in the eyes of the public.”

Crowley was picking the petals one by one off of the chrysanthemum at the center of the table, glowering at the zinnias which were its vase-mates. 

“This decision comes directly from the inner circle of the Dark Council. Even I have not seen it before.” Dagon pulled out an ancient pager held together with painter’s tape and something that was oozing slightly. “The demon we are promoting is—Crowley, Anthony J.”

She turned around and mouthed ‘are you sure?’ to Beelzebub. Beelzebub nodded.

Once, Crowley had been thrown from the deck of a ship into the frigid waters of an angry sea. (It was slightly after the Golden Age of Piracy, during the lesser known Rapidly Tarnishing Age of Much Less Stylish Piracy.) There was a minute between his hitting the freezing water and the onset of panic in which he had drifted, numb, neither breathing nor struggling to breathe, suspended before sinking. At Dagon’s words he felt himself once again plunged into the ice water, too shocked to contemplate the possibility of drowning.

“Shit, Crowley, you got it!” Eric was saying.

Dagon read off the pager. “Crowley’s career highlights include original sin, the Spanish Inquisition, and faucets that don’t line up properly with their sinks. This year Crowley did exceptional work encouraging the sin of Sloth through the use of innovative clickbait mechanisms. He also performed a valuable service for Hell’s internal operations when he eliminated our most troublesome computer virus.[64] Upon acceptance of this promotion, Crowley will be granted the title of Baronet of Hell. Crowley, please come forward to give us a few words.”

At the tap of a button on the pager the projector displayed a blurry picture of Crowley in snake form, fangs bared. 

Through Crowley’s general numbness a spark of annoyance flared.    


“Did they seriously dig up my old Myspace profile picture?”

“Crowley, c’mon, get up there,” Eric whispered. 

Crowley rose and loped to the stage, feeling the numbness harden into panic with every step. By the time he took the microphone from Dagon he was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Er, yeah, hi. It’s—I’m thrilled, obviously. I mean who doesn’t want to be a Baronet, right? You really sure you got the name correct?”

“Not entirely,” Dagon said under her breath.

“Well, anyway, I look forward to being in Hell. All the time. Sounds perfect, that. Erm, do I get a congratulatory drink or something?”

Dagon snapped and another demon handed Crowley a glass of champagne.

“Right,” Crowley said, trying to stop his hand from shaking. “To Hell!”

_ Aziraphale _

“It is my true honor to welcome Aziraphale to our Heaven-based operation and to his new role as Celestial Operations Manager and Human Cultural Sensitivity Advisor. Aziraphale, be not afraid to accept this promotion.”

Aziraphale felt something hot swell in his chest. He was used to the other angels expressing their gratitude for his presence on Earth, but it usually seemed to come with a hidden clause that was not at all complimentary. Everyone in the room was beaming at him and Gabriel was standing at the podium with his hand outstretched. He’d never gotten that kind of recognition before, not even when he and Ithuriel had been deputized to guard the Gates of Eden from the adversary.

The adversary.

At once the swelling in Aziraphale’s chest contracted and a wretched feeling took its place. He was being promoted to the one place Crowley could never follow him.

“Aziraphale, if you’d like to come to the front.”

Somehow, he found himself at the podium, accepting a microphone from Gabriel, although he couldn’t say how he’d arrived there. 

“Aziraphale, I just gotta say: welcome home,” Gabriel said, shaking his hand with excessive firmness. When Aziraphale didn’t react, he leaned in to whisper, “This is the part where you make a speech, buttercup.”

Aziraphale made a beautiful speech. It was rhetorically refined and emotionally affecting, equally succinct and memorable. Angels in attendance would remember later how Aziraphale’s speech managed to be both highly sophisticated and remarkably heartfelt.

It was also plagiarized word for word from a film about an inspiring teacher coaching a group of plucky disadvantaged children through a regional championship.

  
  


_ Crowley _

Demons are not known for their healthy emotional outlets. They don’t call up their friends and complain, they don’t take up kickboxing, and they don’t even buy large tubs of boutique ice cream and seek solace in the creamy depths of mint chocolate chip and stracciatella. 

So when Crowley received the word of his promotion, he spent about two hours staring at himself in the bathroom mirror before tearing away to find a plant at which to hurl abuse.

The sun had yet to sink completely, and he fully intended to have it out with the ficus in the courtyard, but he was so distraught that he ended up spewing all of his pent-up vitriol at a small ornamental flower display in the first flower hallway outside the aromatherapy suite.

“You stupid excuse for a lavender blossom, you aren’t worth infusing in someone’s godawful overscented tea, what kind of a stem is that you blighted phosophorus-deficient son of a stamen—”

The plant did not tremble, flinch, or whimper.

“—you’re not worth a speck of the dirt you were potted in, you mangled excuse for a flower, I hope you get slowly eaten by spider mites and every bite reminds you of your worst failures of which there are many—”

Still no reaction from the plant.

“—I wouldn’t use a shampoo that smelled like you if it was the last sudsing agent on earth and my hair was coated in pond scum, you horrible plastic-looking wretch!”

Crowley fell to his knees; he found spite rather physically exhausting. The plant looked as serene as ever. Pulling off his sunglasses to glare at it, Crowley was about to deliver one more invective when he discovered that the lavender was not only plastic-looking, but actually artificial. He had been screaming at a fake plant.

Feeling mortified, he dashed for the nearest elevator and punched the button for the seventh floor so hard he bruised his hand.

Seeing Hastur, Ligur, and Eric watching television did nothing to improve his foul mood once he had evaded the heavenly sigil in the lounge.

“What happened to you?” Ligur asked. “You look like you were on the receiving end of an exorcism.”

“M’fine,” Crowley said. “Thrilled, actually, always wanted to be a Baronet. Got to get planning out my baronetcy and all that.”

“There’s nothing good on,” Hastur complained. There was an infomercial blaring from the screen, proselytizing the miraculous benefits of microfiber towels for only 12.99 (if you called now). 

“That’s an advert, Hastur,” Crowley said, flopping onto reclining chair and letting his limbs loll even more than usual.

“We’ve been watching a lot of those,” Ligur said. “There’s that really good one about the accident coverage lawyers, that’s top notch, it is.”

Crowley sighed.

Hastur clicked

On the television a flock of seabirds was taking off in coordinated flight to the stirring sounds of a full orchestra showing off.

_ And now we come to the harsh landscape of the frozen north, where only the hardiest survive... _

“Already seen this one,” Crowley said. “The fox catches the chipmunk, the polar bear doesn’t die, the lioness fails to kill the gazelle, you don’t actually see the spider eat the lizard even though there’s a lot of dramatic buildup, and the penguins successfully hatch their stupid fucking chick.”

Hastur whipped around to face Crowley with fury in his gummy eyes. “You ruined it, you rotten reptile. You spoiled the whole plot.”

“I’d still see it,” Eric chimed in. “Just for the record.”

A few more clicks got them to a different wildlife documentary with even more stirring music to accompany its scenes of migrating caribou and drifting schools of mackerel and the solitary pilgrimages of arctic terns. After demanding that Crowley explain the plot holes, the demons settled in to watch. Hastur and Ligur took furious notes for future infernal torments at the section on deep-sea fish.

_ Not much is known about the mating habits of this rare and camera-shy snake… _

“Don’t even say it,” Crowley said.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Eric said.

Ligur snorted. “I was.”

_...but we have managed to capture this one on video as it encounters its mate. _

“Ok, I’m done, I’m not watching this part with you guys.” Crowley stood up and stretched, faking a yawn. “Oh, and Hastur, the iguana dies at the end but the leopard seal makes it.”

“ _ Crowley! _ ”

***

The following day, Crowley was circling the fountain in the lobby after a long and stultifying session on What To Do If You Are Summoned when he saw Aziraphale peer around one of the pink marble columns, attempting to subtly signal him.

Crowley jerked his head in the direction of the snack bar and in five minutes’ time he walked onto the cafe’s deck to find Aziraphale fidgeting with a napkin and chewing his lip.

It was, oddly, a relief to see Aziraphale looking so nervous. Crowley didn’t think he could handle seeing an easy smile slip slowly from Aziraphale’s face at the news. (It occurred to him that perhaps Aziraphale would not stop smiling, that Aziraphale would endeavor to be happy for him and might even convince himself that it was for the best. He definitely couldn’t handle that.)

“We need to talk,” Aziraphale said before Crowley had the change to sit down. He was absently folding the napkin into a freestanding structure.

“Right what I was gonna tell you, actually,” Crowley said. “I’ve got shit news.”

“I have, well, it’s good news,” Aziraphale said. Then, quieter, “It’s supposed to be.”

Crowley had planned a detailed, heartfelt speech about his unfortunate promotion while lying awake in the bathtub. It was meticulously mapped in his head and included two extended conceits, four literary allusions, and three different pleas for Aziraphale to run away with him, organized in ascending order of desperation. 

He did not say any of it. 

“Hell’s taking me back. I’m being promoted, pending completion of a remedial course on appropriate use of the infernal expense account. The bastards.” 

It was more difficult to say than he had expected; the last words were choked. Crowley pressed his sunglasses to his face as tightly as he could, hoping they formed a watertight seal.[65]

“What?” Aziraphale looked righteously angry. “ _ I’m _ being promoted.”

Somehow, the addition of a second obstacle to the precarious life he had eked out on earth alongside Aziraphale made the tears stop, the despair evaporate, and a dangerous, premature joy spread through Crowley like electric charge through a waterlogged household appliance. Indefinite separation was so unthinkable that he abruptly decided not to think about it. Instead he laughed, a demented cackle that had just as much spite as mirth.

“We’re getting out of this,” he said to Aziraphale, with a fierce smack atop a stack of brochures for the spa and a sharp-toothed smile. “I don’t want to be in a sweltering cubicle ten thousand miles below London anymore than you want to be in the Great Open Plan Office in the Sky.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to his napkin sculpture.

“I wish there was a way, Crowley, I—well, I’ve settled into something of a comfortable routine here, and if it’s all the same to the Almighty I’d really rather continue where I am.”

“There  _ is  _ a way,” Crowley insisted, taking one of Aziraphale’s hands in his own and trying not to mentally pick apart ‘comfortable routine’ and whether he himself might make the routine more or less comfortable. 

Aziraphale looked up at him under pale lashes. “How? I won’t defy Heaven, and you can’t disobey Hell. You said so yourself last night, overpriced handbag and all.”

“It won’t come to that, come on, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll just think of a plan” —he grabbed a spa brochure— “execute the plan” —he rolled the brochure into a thin tube— “and then it’s all peachy again” —he swung at Aziraphale’s carefully folded napkin, which collapsed.

Aziraphale blinked. “ _ That’s  _ your idea? Forgive me for not thinking of just coming up with a plan and doing it.”

Crowley was about to retort, but a group of angels entered the snack bar and instead he unrolled the spa brochure and buried his face in it. An interminable minute went by during which Aziraphale kept a close eye on the angels at the counter and Crowley read about the hydrating benefits of the kelp wrap treatment.

“Clear at nine o’clock,” Aziraphale said, in a whisper more suited to a theater in the round than a theater of war.

Crowley let the brochure drop.

“What’s an ‘exfoliating scrub’?” he asked.

“Something to rub on your skin to slough off the old bits,” Aziraphale said automatically. “Please, Crowley, let’s focus on the, ah, peculiar situation at hand.”

“Wait, what do you mean the old bits? You—are you telling me your skin flakes off in little pieces?” He felt a sense of revulsion not dissimilar to that provoked by the more active inhabitants of Hell’s office fridge.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Everyone’s skin gets, you know, replaced bit by bit, it’s nothing horrid.”

“So…what you’re saying is you don’t peel it all off at once?”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open in horror. 

“ _ How have you lived among humans for over six thousand years and never noticed that they don’t shed their skin? _ ”

“Well it hardly seems like the kind of thing you mention at dinner parties,” Crowley said defensively. “And you’ve know me for more than six thousand years and  _ you  _ never realized  _ I  _ did.”

“Why would I think something like that?” Aziraphale’s voice climbed in pitch. 

“So you’ve never noticed my face looks really really fantastic every three months or so, huh?”

“I—it’s not that it doesn’t—Crowley,  _ no one  _ looks at someone else’s nice skin and supposes it must have all—” words failed Aziraphale and he made a flailing gesture like something splitting apart.

Crowley squinted at Aziraphale through his sunglasses as though taking the measure of him through some complex trigonometry. “For the record, even though your skin flakes off constantly, I still find you very attractive.”

“How open-minded of you,” Aziraphale snapped, as a flush crept its way up his neck from beneath the collar of his unseasonable sweater. Crowley wanted to argue, but he found himself staring at that creeping flush and was unable to think of any reply except kissing his way along its path. Regrettably, that was off-limits.

“Yeah, that’s the one from sunrise yoga,” a voice called.

Mary Loquacious, the hotel manager, had approached their table with a young woman wearing a sweatshirt that said TRASH THE PATRIARCHY, NOT THE PLANET.

“Hey Aziraphale, good to see you in a non-meditative state,” the sweatshirted woman said.

“Sunrise yoga class?” Crowley looked at Aziraphale with nearly the same alarm he’d just displayed about the skin flakes.

“Long story,” Aziraphale said. “Nice to see you, Anathema.”

“Oh look, it’s the two guests of honor!” Mary exclaimed. Her earrings were geckos today, one green, one yellow-and-blue. “I have to say, I think these are the only parties for which I’ve hired a team of exorcists.”

“Parties?” Aziraphale asked, blanching.

“Exorcists?” Crowley gulped.

“You do know the hotel is aware of your supernatural origins, right?” Mary said, quizzical. “I’ve spoken to the higher-ups and lower-downs in your respective organizations. The exorcists are just for backup security. Standard practice, part of your liability agreement.”

“Well I suppose that does make some sense.” Aziraphale squeezed one of his fingers with anxiety. “But what are the parties for?”

“Your promotions, I believe,” Mary broke into a smile. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Wasn’t really the most subtle company name you could have chosen, ‘Celestial Holdings,’” Anathema said. “A bit obvious.”

“Look, you try getting a demon to come up with a name for something,” Crowley said. “They’re rubbish at it.”

“ _ Caramel, _ ” Aziraphale muttered under his breath.

Crowley swatted his hand with the spa brochure.

“Well, I do suppose angels aren’t really that much better,” Aziraphale conceded, shaking out his hand with more care than the brochure-swat warranted. “Everything Gabriel came up with was also the name of a strip club or a, er, video rental shop of an indecent nature. You humans have made a real mess of the words ‘heavenly,’ and ‘angel,’ I must say.”[66]

“So I’ve been wondering, does the afterlife use an absolute rubric? Or are souls graded on a curve against the morality of everyone in their death cohort?” Sister Mary asked.

“We are, ah, not exactly at liberty to discuss specifics with mortals,” Aziraphale said apologetically.“I can only say that Heaven has unerring judgment.”

“Hell did a study and found that people are damned much more severely when the demons in charge of soul-weighing are about to go on vacation,” Crowley said. 

“That’s disgraceful,” Aziraphale looked shocked.

“Well, did Heaven ever look into their own data? Ever search for any ethereal biases up there?” Crowley countered.

“Divine judgment is unerring,” Aziraphale repeated, though it sounded much less confident this time. “Did Hell attempt to mitigate that effect at all? What did they do with the study?”

“Hmm? Oh, tossed it to the Subcommittee on the Integrity of Evil. It’ll never get out of there.”

“Well then why did anyone bother studying it in the first place?”

Crowley gave him a dark look. “We got sued. Do you know how many attorneys we have down there? We’ve got entire white-shoe firms full of dead lawyers appealing their cases.”

“Hang on, you can appeal?” Anathema looked up from her phone, bewildered. “What happens if you appeal yourself out of Hell but Heaven won’t take you?”

“Well, no one’s ever really figured out what all those middle floors are for…” Crowley began.

“You’re a strange pair, you are,” Mary said, shaking her head and making the gecko earrings flop. “A rogue angel and a punch-clock demon.”

“Actually I’m salaried,” Crowley said meekly.

Anathema snapped her phone case shut. “You’ve been real, but I gotta help Newt reboot the front desk system again. See ya around.”

Mary and Aziraphale exchanged pleasantries and the two women went back into the hotel through the cafe.

“We’ve got to figure this out,” Crowley said. “Let’s go back to that place with the parrots and come up with a plan.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose we had better. I’ve got a presentation on the best ways to thwart a demon tomorrow, I can meet you at seven.”

“Funny enough, tomorrow I’ve got a presentation to Hell about outsmarting angels.”

“Pity you haven’t got any experience with that.”

“Hey! That’s not very nice,  _ angel. _ ”

Aziraphale’s eyes glittered. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Good luck with your presentation dear, I’ve got to go over my notes on how to ‘deal with demons.’” He laughed, clearly in spite of himself, and looked at Crowley with eyes full of fondness.

“Well that’s something you’re rather good at, isn’t it?” Crowley said, peeking over the top of his sunglasses. “You’ve got something of a talent for meeting wickedness with, well, another kind of wickedness.”

Aziraphale blushed and said to the salt shaker “I hardly think I’ll be advising my colleagues to take those sorts of—tactics. But I really do need to read over my notes.”

“Right, see you tomorrow at seven,” Crowley stood up. Some desperate part of him added, “Let me know if you’d like to, er, practice any of that. The dealing-with-demons.”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said, and stood up as Crowley walked by so that their faces were rather close together. “I think I’ve got rather more than enough memories to draw upon.”

Crowley tried and failed not to look at Aziraphale’s lips. “Can’t hurt to add some fresh ones, though, can it?” he said softly.

To his surprise and elation, Aziraphale gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a distraction, dear. We’ve got presentations to do and promotions to refuse somehow.” He gave Crowley an appraising up-and-down glance and smothered a smile. “Business before pleasure, you know.”

***

Close to midnight, after Aziraphale had thoroughly reviewed his notes, the room was lit only by the glowing screen playing  _ Wild Planet IV _ .

_ And so as it unhinges its jaw the snake gains the incredible ability to swallow down things larger than the size of its own head… _

“Aziraphale? You here?”

Aziraphale yelped, stabbed the remote to turn off the TV, dove under the covers, and poked around for a suitable book to pretend to read.[67] Struck suddenly with something like divine inspiration, he extracted the Bible from the nightstand drawer and appeared to be thoroughly immersed in Deuteronomy when Gabriel finally pulled on the lamp.

“Gabriel! How nice to see you!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“Hey kiddo, it’s my turn on duty. Boy, do you look excited.”

“I do?” Aziraphale squeaked. “Oh, yes, terribly excited about the promotion, of course. It’ll be lovely to be, er, once more with the rest of the flock, so to speak.”

‘You nervous?” Gabriel called as he headed to the bathroom to brush his already-gleaming teeth.

“Oh, I suppose a little,” Aziraphale said, realizing that he’d been having trouble reading Deuteronomy because the Bible was upside-down.

Gabriel, in meticulously-ironed pajamas, took care to remove his watch and set it for 5am, then knelt and pulled out a book from his bag before climbing into bed.

“This is really great, thinking of making it mandatory reading,” he said offhand. Aziraphale could read  _ How to Win Souls and Influence Mortals  _ across the cover. 

“Oh, quite.”

“Hey, you’ve got that presentation tomorrow, you feel ready?” Gabriel asked. 

Aziraphale had never been forced to repeat a catechism, but he imagined they felt similar to conversations with Gabriel, to which every question had only one acceptable answer.

“Naturally,” he replied. “Always nice to provide helpful instruction to my fellow angels.”

“Couldn’t think of a better angel for the job,” Gabriel said, thumbing a page. “Part of why we decided to promote you was just, well have the kind of zeal Heaven needs. Always seems to me like you take genuine pleasure in thwarting the forces of evil.”[68]

“Oh I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, squirming a little further under the covers and focusing very hard on the text that read  _ Their wine is the venom of serpents. _ “Really, I’m just doing my job.”

Footnotes

55 “Erm, I guess it’s a good thing cravats are still in fashion—you’ll probably want one for your, er, neck,” Crowley sputtered apologetically. 

“Crowley, good lord, what have you done to me?” 

“Sorry—fangs, makes discretion a little challenging...” 

If there were long and rather indicative scratches running up and down Crowley’s back as well, Aziraphale declined to draw attention to them.  [ return to text ]

56 Kingdom come really would not do. It was, after all, bad form to bring one’s personal affairs to the workplace.  [ return to text ]

57 Aziraphale had always suspected that earphones were demonic in origin, or at least achieved ubiquity thanks in part to devilish wiles, but they had taken Heaven’s offices by storm, much like touchscreens, acrylic furniture, and personal recirculating fountains.  [ return to text ]

58 _A very good place to start,_ the part of his mind that was stuck replaying the Sound of Music soundtrack forever chimed in. Briefly, he despaired.  [ return to text ]

59 Every time someone got too close, Hasur, Ligur, and Eric all started to smile in an unsettling, expectant way that prompted would-be soakers to turn around and abandon their hopes of warmth and water jets. Crowley tried to do the unsettling smile as well, but he was so hungover that every movement of his facial muscles just looked like half-hearted wincing.  [ return to text ]

60 That was a bold statement, Crowley thought, considering Ligur still thought that ‘Walkman’ was a synonym for ‘vagrant’ and that ‘iPod’ signified some kind of legume.  [ return to text ]

61 “What do you think sex feels like?” Aziraphale asked Crowley. They were sitting on a hillside watching the sun set over the Aegean Sea. Several hours and two bottles of wine earlier they had watched one of Aristophanes’ comedies, and Aziraphale had found it rather thought-provoking. 

Crowley’s yellow eyes flicked to Aziraphale and back to the ocean. “No idea,” he said. “Probably like when you tie yourself in a knot and have to slither out of it. But pleasant instead of annoying.” 

Aziraphale tried to imagine this and found himself lacking the necessary frame of reference. “You think it’s pleasant?” he asked, a note of hope in his voice. 

Crowley looked straight ahead and said “I think it could be.” 

“Hmm. I don’t think angels are supposed to be curious about that of thing. Bit of a pity.” 

“Yeah. That’s—that’s too bad.”  [ return to text ]

62 Notwithstanding that this was the sort of gentleman with whom Aziraphale deeply sympathized.  [ return to text ]

63 Occasionally, his thoughts transposed the same image of Crowley sucking on his finger to a different location, and when they did Aziraphale took several enormous gulps of ice water from the pitcher on the table.  [ return to text ]

64 Crowley had also created Hell’s most troublesome computer virus, but no one was aware of that.  [ return to text ]

65 As Crowley had recently been reminded by Wild Planet III, snakes are incapable of crying. The same is believed to be true of demons, although no one has ever sat them all down them and made them watch The Titanic. Nonetheless, Crowley found himself producing improbable tears.  [ return to text ]

66 For a split second Crowley was about to heartily concur that overuse of the word ‘angel’ in erotic matters made it difficult to find any worthwhile pornography, and then he came to senses.  [ return to text ]

67 _Abduction by the Demon Prince_ did not seem like the right thing, notwithstanding its carefully applied plain cover.  [ return to text ]

68 There were many instances of thwarting evil that Aziraphale felt genuinely proud of, fiendish plots he had undone and hellish schemes he had spoiled. 

He wasn’t quite as proud of other instances, like the ones in which evil had itself requested a thwarting. There were a number of these instances. Sometimes evil asked for a more gentle or forceful thwarting depending on its caprice. And sometimes, it wanted to thwart good.  [ return to text ]


	6. I Second That Demotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end and the last chapter is going up tonight! Things between Aziraphale and Crowley get (literally and metaphorically) a little steamy.

_Gabriel_

There was a warm drizzle outside _The Boiling Sea,_ where two angels and two demons were clustered inside.

“All things considered, this could have gone a lot worse," Michael said, fishing an olive out of her drink. “Not all that many days left.”

“Thank the Devil,” Beelzebub said. They were picking at a clam chowder; when they finally tried a spoonful they made a face. “Only ten more dayzz of thiz.” Unscrewing the cap on the malt vinegar on the table, they let it drain into the soup.

“Hey, we haven’t had any discorporations yet, one for the record!” Gabriel lifted his vodka tonic with angelic triumph, the kind that would have demanded gold leafing in an old painting. His face was pinker than usual.

“Aw, this isn’t actually blood,” Dagon interrupted. She was holding a shrimp tail and looking at her bowl of cocktail sauce with immeasurable disappointment.

“Of course,” Michael continued, ignoring Dagon’s culinary objection, “let’s not get too comfortable just yet. If I understand correctly, you allege that a demon almost had a finger amputated by one of our employees?”

“It’s true,” said Dagon, crunching on the shrimp tail. “Unmistakable situation, it was.”

“Who was it?” Michael asked. “Which angel bit the demon?”

Dagon’s eyes were as dead as the ones staring up from the $14.99 catch-of-the-day special. “I don’t _know._ All you angels look the same to me.”

“Wow, OK, first of all, _problematic,_ ” Gabriel said. There was little Gabriel liked better than identifying problematic things that other people said, except for ignoring all the problematic things he said himself. “Second of all, do you at least know which demon it was?”

“It was Crowley,” Dagon answered.

“Crowley?” Michael frowned. “Isn’t that the one who got lost in that basement close to Knossos? That was a PR disaster.”

“Oh yeah! Our agent Aziraphale was telling me about this guy when I was checking in on some miracle logs,” Gabriel snapped his fingers as if to signal his seizure of the conversation. “Apparently this Crowley was gonna work some big demonic scheme at the Ritz Hotel in London. Huge deal. Aziraphale was totally on it, though. I remember he had this elaborate undercover routine going, ate an entire six-course dinner there and had a room booked and everything.”[69]

“I don’t remember anything about a demonic scheme at the Ritz from Crowley’s reports,” Beelzebub said slowly, “thought that does ring a bell, somehow.”[70]

“Can we get back to the issue at hand? The angel bite?” Dagon cut in, exasperated.

“Yes, right. Really doesn’t sound like an angel’s style though, whichever angel it was,” Gabriel mused. “I mean, let’s face it, you guys have a lock on the fangs-and-claws thing.”

“You look down on Hell for doing with teeth the same exzact thingzz you do with swordzz of flame and the glory of God.” Beelzebub slammed the table and stood up. “Did you know getting smote by an angel can produze injuriezz that require sterilizzation to avoid infection? Angel woundzz get just azz dizgusting azz demon onez without proper medical care.”

Gabriel exchanged a look with Michael that expressed severe doubt as to Hell’s ability to provide proper medical care under any circumstance, but he changed the subject.

“Well, I can assure you we will remind our crew that smiting on retreat is a serious no-go.” He smiled as if that settled the matter.

They argued back and forth about injury liability. Then, as a second round of drinks came and went and the bowls of seafood soup emptied, the leaders of Heaven and Hell briefly commiserated about the difficulties of organizational restructuring, thought leadership, and finding vendors to print customized souvenirs. Eventually, Michael left, citing the need to put in a call to the Acting Archangels back at headquarters, and Dagon left shortly after, citing her own boredom with Gabriel.

Beelzebub and Gabriel were alone at the booth. Beelzebub, out of soup, poured another glug of vinegar into their rum and coke instead.

“Juzzt for the record,” Beelzebub said. “I knew it would be an angel who violated protocol first.”

“Oh this is incredible, really, are you serious?” 

“Perfectly.”

“Well, hate to tell you, but I’m equally confident that it will be a demon that messes up fastest.” Gabriel drained the last of his vodka tonic.

“What doezz it matter? You angelzz flout protocol all the time and there aren’t any consequencezz. Hell doezn’t do that. Hell iz nothing but consequencezz.”

Gabriel slapped a hand on the table, causing the napkin holder to tremble and the patrons at the next table to start whispering about why it was unwise to bring up politics over crab stew.

“You wanna bet?”

“Bet what?” Beelzebub asked. Curiosity flickered momentarily across their face like the shadow from a passing swarm of gnats.

“I bet a demon causes the first discorporation or major policy violation,” Gabriel said. 

Beelzebub snorted. “This iz going to be the eaziezt money I’ve ever made. Counting all the pyramid schemezz.”

“No, come on, we’re not doing this for money, gambling is a sin. Let’s play for consequences.”

“Consequencezz? The first consequencezz for mizbehaving angelzz since Luzifer fell?”

“That’s a gross mischaracterization of our internal performance improvement system,” Gabriel said. “But sure, yeah, if you manage to hold off on a serious violation longer than Heaven does, I will literally fire the angel who screws up. Pending composition of a termination policy.”

Beelzebub squinted suspiciously. “When you zay ‘fire,’ do you mean ‘set on fire,’ or iz that no longer _bezt practice?_ ”

“Indefinite suspension without pay. We can’t cast anyone into Hell anymore, not since you guys had that roofing job done.”[71]

“Hah, I can’t believe you think this iz going to be eazy. I accept,” Beelzebub held up the vinegary rum and coke.

Gabriel lifted his empty glass of vodka tonic. “Let’s make it unbreakable. I swear on my divinity—you can swear on uh, I don’t know, something.”

Beelzebub spoke something very profane in a language so old that it had yelled at other ancient languages to get off of its lawn.

Gabriel shrugged. “That’ll work too.”

Their glasses clinked.

_Aziraphale_

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, bouncing from the balls of his feet to the heels, “are there any questions?”

He said this in the kind of voice that indicated he would be much obliged if there were not, in fact, any questions at all.

Angels, although by profession charged with interpreting the Word of God, do not have a tremendous gift for determining authorial intent.

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, Zephon, what is it?”

“Hi, yeah, just wondering if you have any slides of this available? It was kind of hard to write all this down on the back of the daily agenda.”

Aziraphale began to puff up like a startled nesting bird preparing for a bout of adversarial chirping.

“No, I do not have _slides._ Really I don’t see why they should be necessary. If the Almighty had wanted everything delivered by Powerpoint surely the Bible would have been issued with an adapter cord and a clicker,” he said sourly. 

“Ooh, write that down as a suggestion for the definitive edition,” Gabriel whispered to Sandalphon.

Aziraphale scanned the room for more inquiries.

“Yes, Ithuriel?”

Ithuriel, it appeared, had copied down every word of Aziraphale’s presentation, and when he’d run out of room on the conference agenda he’d continued jotting things down on his own arm.

“What does ‘efficacious’ mean?” he asked, squinting at his elbow.

“It mean ‘effectual.’ Now, I suppose if anyone really wants notes—”

“What does ‘effectual’ mean?”

“It means ‘effective.’ So as I was saying—”

“What does ‘effective’ mean?”

Aziraphale tried to summon the patience he employed with children and small, unmannerly dogs. It was a variety of his patience which, despite frequent attempts at employment, had difficulties holding down a steady job.

“Did you really interrogate a demon?” Samael asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “It can be horribly difficult, but one can get the hang of it over time like anything.”[72]

  
  


_Crowley_

“OK, that’s enough of that, then,” Crowley said, clicking through the end of his presentation. “Any questions?”

He said this in the kind of voice that indicated any questions that valued the safety of their families had sure as Hell remain unasked.

Demons are not familiar with the concept of authorial intent,[73] but they delight in doing the opposite of what someone wishes.

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, go on then, Asmodeus.”

“Did you know that the first part of your speech was literally just the definition of ‘angel’ in the Cambridge English Dictionary?”

"That’s called an epigraph and it’s a sophisticated literary technique,” said Crowley, who had spent all of 15 minutes assembling his hour-long presentation. “Anything else?”

“Is it true you’ve fought an angel more than three hundred times?” Mephistopheles asked skeptically.

“Oh yeah, I’ve won every one of those fights too, angels are terrified of me.”

“I have a question,” Dagon said. “Did you know that every picture used in this presentation is on the first page of Google Image Search results for ‘angel’?”

Crowley fixed Dagon with a pitying stare. “I guess the Dark Lord works in mysterious ways.”[74]

  
  


_Aziraphale_

“There’s nothing else for it,” Aziraphale said, wringing the last drops of juice from a lime wedge. “We’ll have to decline the promotions.”

He was sitting opposite Crowley in the shadows of the Kokomo Lounge, beneath a picture of pirates setting off cannons that said LET’S TAKE SHOTS. A bowl of mango salsa and a heap of unanswered questions sat between them.

“Look a bit suspicious if we both did though, wouldn’t it?” Crowley asked. “Also, I bet if I decline this promotion they’ll send me to Hell anyway, except I’ll be checking to make sure the contents of the fridge haven’t developed their own political systems.”

Aziraphale frowned as he took a sip of his mojito.

“I suppose the Archangels wouldn’t take it too kindly if I refused my calling, either. But then what are we to do?”

Crowley was drinking something that was frosty and blue and festooned with hibiscus flowers, and he clunked it down on the table in the manner of a judge hitting a gavel.

“Maybe we could find out who our replacements are and coach them to do a rubbish job so they beg us to come back to Earth,” he suggested.

“How would we do that? What if our replacements are highly ambitious? What if they’re”— Aziraphale pressed his hand to his heart — _“career-oriented?_ ”

“Well, I dunno, have you thought of anything better?”

Aziraphale drew himself up to his full seated height and selected a tortilla chip with the utmost dignity.

“We’ve got to make them think we’re unqualified,” he declared.

 _“How?_ ” Crowley’s voice was more than a little despairing. “I didn’t think we were qualified in the first place.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “I’m afraid it may require some improper conduct.” He gave an officious sort of wiggle.

Crowley had a strange look on his face.

“Erm, what would you mean by that?” he asked.

“Only that if we endeavored to be disappointing, well, perhaps it would give them reason to doubt. Nothing terrible, you know, just...slightly less than perfectly professional.”

“We could get in a fight with each other,” Crowley offered. “They’d never _really_ blame us for it, but it’s against the retreat rules.”

Aziraphale scooped up a glob of mint leaves from his drink and popped them into his mouth. 

“I’m not sure if that’s going to work. In any case you’re not going to look very heroic, you’ve never won a fight with me.” He placed one hand neatly atop the other.

“I have too!” Crowley protested.

“Turning into a giant snake is cheating.”

“I still have besides that. What about Amesbury? Stonehenge? _Larkhill?_ ”

Aziraphale’s face felt suddenly feverish. “That was _hardly_ what I would call winning. Or fighting, for that matter.”[75]

“Well what else should we do to get demoted? Act like it’s gone to our heads? Should I develop a knack for being polite and you start showing up to meetings less than five minutes early on the dot?”

“That’s—not a terrible idea,” Aziraphale said, as if in surprise.

Crowley sighed. “I live for your adoring praise, angel.”

“But really—if you did a few less-than-demonic deeds and I acted a little more prideful than becomes an angel, we could convince them we’re not 'a good fit for company culture' or whatever rubbish Gabriel prints on his sticky notes.”

“I guess it’s not like our bosses know us all that well,” Crowley said slowly.

“Exactly! We can convince them. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Crowley rose his hibiscus-adorned drink and Aziraphale lifted his mojito.

“Now, let’s hash out some of the details…”

_Crowley_

After midnight, when the bartender started to give more and more pointed looks to the mass of scribbled-upon cocktail napkins that Aziraphale and Crowley had produced, they started back for the hotel, considerably soberer than the last time they’d made the journey. Giddy with the thought of being left to their own devices on Earth, they strolled the edge of the Empyrean’s darkened pool in happily punctuated silence.

Crowley felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his heart, which had spent much of the last day alternately racing in panic and panging in anticipated misery.[76] They had a plan to achieve demotion and a week in which to do it. Crowley had been animated and hopeful, and Aziraphale seemed like he was starting to have a little faith it would work (for a literal angel of the Lord, he showed remarkably little faith in the things most worth believing in). Not for the first time, Crowley looked at Aziraphale through the double barriers of night and sunglasses and wished he could see the expression on his face.

“...and then I said, well what if it’s 'give up on hope, all ye who have not yet given up on hoping,’ and Dagon just looked at me like she didn’t get it…”

“Shit!” Crowley hissed.

“Oh, Hell!” Aziraphale said. 

It was unclear whether he meant it as an oath or a statement of plain fact, since Hastur and Ligur were walking nearby. Only several layers of luxuriant, manicured vegetation stood between the oncoming demons and the pool.

Crowley, whose rational judgment had been occupied all night making dreamy eyes in Aziraphale’s direction and was now entering a state of unresponsive shock, did something very stupid.

Namely, he grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and pulled them both into the non-infinite end of the infinity pool.

Several confused seconds went by underwater in which Crowley received a sharp kick from both Aziraphale and the aforesaid rational judgment, recently aroused from its state of unresponsive shock via the inhalation of a large quantity of chlorinated water. 

They were followed by several clarifying seconds of them both surfacing and Aziraphale identifying the mercifully retreating backs of Hastur and Ligur before turning to Crowley.

“ _What were you thinking you benighted snake?_ ”

“I wasn’t, really, but you’re welcome for saving us,” Crowley said, after removing water from his nose and mouth through a series of expulsive indignities.

Aziraphale drew back as though he’d been slapped. “I’m sorry, I suppose that was meant to be helpful.” There was a moment of resigned sloshing. “You know, you can let go of my arm now.”

“Oh right, yeah.” 

They remained very close, treading water. Crowley realized at once that his sunglasses were at the bottom of the pool, and that Aziraphale’s eyes were glowing like the bioluminescence the guidebook had promised and the beach had not delivered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and tilted his head, ever so slightly, ever so gently.

Crowley tried to make his eyelids flutter downwards, which was enormously difficult; he hadn’t blinked in almost 36 hours. “Yeah, angel?”

Something changed suddenly in Aziraphale’s face; he looked as though he’d just remembered he was late for an appointment of paramount urgency.

“Oh I—I think we had better dry off,” he said, backing away. 

One lesser known benefit of lacking a gag reflex is that it allows for the easy swallowing of enormous disappointment.

“Right. Course.”

“Although,” Aziraphale said, splashing a little. “I suppose it wouldn’t do for us to walk into the Empyrean like this.”

“Yeah, chlorine’s bad for the skin,” Crowley said, inanely, watching a drip of water slide down from Aziraphale’s ear across the length of his neck. 

Aziraphale bit his lip. “There are, ah, showers and towels in the change room, that’s accessible from the pool deck.”

Crowley felt something coil up inside him like a snake ready to strike.[77] He tried to throttle it before it achieved prominence.

“You can go first, I’ll wait here.”

“Oh nonsense, there’s more than one shower,” Aziraphale said, swimming towards the ladder. “And after all, the pool is _closed_.”

Crowley let Aziraphale climb out on the submerged ladder and then allowed himself a moment of appreciation for how beautifully wet fabric clung to ample flesh before schooling his features into something more dignified than slack-mouthed hunger.

They sloshed and squelched to the showers, looking around for any angels or demons before reaching the door, which had a picture of a blue seashell and MEN’S SHOWERS, NO SHOES ALLOWED painted on. Aziraphale glanced down as his waterlogged brown loafers and Crowley’s snakeskin boots and gave a soft sigh of resignation. As they entered, Crowley reflected that perhaps this was the singular time Aziraphale had broken an explicitly written rule and he, Crowley, technically hadn’t.

There were three shower stalls, one of which was missing its divider and all of which had small plastic stools outside the line of spray for the placement of dry towels. The remaining two were divided, Crowley realized with an unhelpful jolt, by only a plastic curtain of dubious opacity.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s get on with it. We can, ah, I mean, I’m just going to…”

He grabbed two towels and handed one to Crowley, then ducked into the stall. When Crowley saw a hand reach out and deposit an unbuttoned shirt, he hastily put down his towel and retreated into his own stall. 

_Don’t leer at him just because he’s standing there naked on the other side of probably translucent plastic you pervert,_ Crowley said to himself.

He carefully peeled off his wet clothes, taking care not to hop too close to the plastic curtain when extracting his legs from soaked skinny jeans. There was a soft rushing noise when Aziraphale turned on the shower, then a softer sound as Azirphale sighed when the jet hit him. Crowley would have happily replayed that sigh while the Earth precessed through a complete rotation of North Stars.

He turned the handle for water with hands that had become suddenly clumsy. A stream of cool water hit him in the neck and he swore, wrenching the handle over from blue to red and waiting for the heat to follow. Without turning around, he could see Aziraphale’s feet below the curtain, bare and flat and pink. One of them brushed atop the other to divert a stream of especially soapy water, and Crowley yanked his gaze away from the sight and his mind away from a series of too-interesting ruminations.

“It’s not bad pressure, really,” Aziraphale’s voice burbled through the dual jets of water and the ambient steam.

Crowley attempted to give a verbal reply, but what emerged from his throat was an unholy medley of grunt, squeak, and dying animal. This was partially occasioned by his turning automatically around at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice and realizing how very translucent the shower curtain actually was.

Aziraphale’s silhouette looked soft and delectable as he appeared to float through the clouds of steam. Crowley could see his shadow step towards the showerhead to rinse his hair and throw his head back. There was another quiet, unendurable sigh, as if in pleasure.

_You’re not an idiot teenager, you’re a millennia-old embodiment of evil, get ahold of yourself._

_And NOT in the literal sense._

Crowley’s mind was racing in dozens of enticing directions at once, while all the blood in his body was racing in one, increasingly definitive, direction. He turned around and shoved his face into the stream of hot water.

After one or two more excruciating minutes of trying to pretend he was a disembodied spirit while listening to Aziraphale slick soap on and off of himself, Crowley shut off the water and heard the adjacent shower follow suit. He reached a hand into the colder air beyond the shower curtain and grabbed a towel, drying off as rapidly as possible and wrapping it around his waist with a care to overlap the terrycloth at the front of his body.

When he stepped out of the shower stall, Aziraphale was already there, standing in a towel wrapped across his chest that fell to the top of his thighs, which Crowley quickly determined were not something he could look at with anything like equanimity. Aziraphale’s face was pink— _he’s not blushing he just scrubbed his face_ —and his hair was slicked back. One curl was hanging apart from the rest, and Crowley had a sudden suspicion it had been purposefully separated for aesthetic effect.

“Yeah I guess the water pressure was alright,” he said, picking up the conversation long since dropped. It was difficult not to hiss, and he made a mental note not to say anything with an s-sound.

“Rather refreshing.” Aziraphale said, smiling shyly.

“Yeah,” Crowley scrambled for acceptable thoughts to voice. “I like water. Good invention, that.”

Aziraphale took a step forward. “It feels nice when it touches your skin.”

“Uh-huh,” said Crowley, trying to ignore everything his body was screaming at him. “Perfectly good innocent earthly pleasure.”

There was a pause, and a torturous dripping.

“Oh _fuck this,_ ” Aziraphale said, and pulled Crowley into a kiss.

Either the expletive or the sudden presence of Aziraphale’s tongue in his mouth would have been enough for Crowley’s rational judgment to take its leave, and the two together sent it fleeing. He let go of his wrapped towel to cling to Aziraphale and pulled them tighter together. Aziraphale was soft and obliging and very warm, and the thought flicked through Crowley’s mind that this was what it had been like to lie on top of clouds in Heaven.[78]

Then Aziraphale licked up his neck and kissed a tender spot under his jaw, and all thoughts of Heaven vanished. Most of his other thoughts did too.

“Angel, are you ssssure?”

“Well, suppose we’ve got to _ah!”_ — he gasped as Crowley bit at his ear —“get into the spirit of improper conduct somehow.”

That was all the encouragement Crowley needed for another round of increasingly wet and obscene kisses. Aziraphale’s hands cupped Crowley’s face as he licked eagerly into the mouth of hell; Crowley’s hands had reached under the edge of Aziraphale’s towel and were glorying in the presence of the divine.

After a minute or so of frantic grappling, Aziraphale and Crowley were left wearing their towels to about the same degree that someone in a t-shirt with a picture of a tie on it is wearing semiformal. Following a particularly adventurous kiss, Crowley pulled away to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear.

“I can find better thingssss to do with my tongue, you know.”[79]

“Oh _Crowley,_ ” Aziraphale shuddered.

Crowley gently discarded the towels and kissed a wandering path along the convex curve of Aziraphale’s belly as he sank to his knees. The floor was wet and disgusting, and he promptly decided not to care.

“ _Angel._ ”

“Wait!” Aziraphale cried, pulling on Crowley’s hair to stop him from lunging forward. “Do you hear that?”

“...so weird they aren’t here, I must have left my sunglasses _somewhere._ ” 

Gabriel’s voice echoed from the other side of the door. Crowley hastily retracted his tongue into his mouth (which took several seconds), as if that made their position any less compromising.

“What if they’re in the pool? Could’ve fallen in,” Sandalphon was saying.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sandy, what kind of person leaves their sunglasses in a swimming pool?”

“Well I don’t see them on the deck anywhere.”

“Could be in the showers, I guess? Worth a check.” Gabriel’s voice sounded closer. “Oh hang on, better take off my shoes, they’re not allowed.”

 _“Take your clothes and run,_ ” Aziraphale said, and released Crowley’s hair. The two of them grabbed their piled clothes, hastily wrapped themselves in the discarded towels, and careened towards the door into the hotel.

When they were safely on the other side of it, Aziraphale gasped.

“Oh, Crowley, you must have left your shoes!”

“Er, it’s OK angel, I have a feeling I’ll be able to get them back.”

“Let’s split up,” Aziraphale said. “We can’t let anyone see us together.”

He pressed a last messy kiss to Crowley’s lips, and the two of them went hurtling down the hallway in opposite directions.

***

Crowley ducked into a bathroom and spent several minutes awkwardly holding his clothes under the hand dryer, willing the water to evaporate.[80] When the fabric had ceased to drip and was only a bit unpleasantly moist, he wrestled his clothes back on and put the wet towel in a trashcan. There was no helping the sunglasses at the bottom of the infinity pool, but he figured if he walked by the concierge quickly enough and kept his head down, he could make it back without starting any rumors.

As he crossed the lobby and gave an offhand wave to Newt at the desk, he was on the verge of congratulating himself on a situation well-slithered-out-of. 

Then he saw Hastur and Ligur approaching, and remembered that he’d glued all the buttons on their TV remote in a moment of spite.

“Crowley!” Ligur said. “There you are, you little bastard.”

“We’ve got a good mind to give you a pounding, Crowley,” Hastur said, advancing.

Newt, Crowley noticed, had been lifted from a kind of existential middle-distance staring and was reaching for a labeled phone with a concerned look on his face. Crowley thought fast, and decided that Pride was one of his weaker sins anyway.

“Guys,” he said, plastering a suggestive grin on his face, “wait ‘til we’re upstairs, please.” His voice became a stage whisper. “Then you can give me all the pounding your filthy little hearts desire.”

“That’s what I just said,” Hastur was taken aback. “Didn’t I just say that?”

“Crowley, I’m warning you, you’re gonna feel this one tomorrow,” Ligur growled.

“Well I should _hope_ so,” Crowley said, and walked two fingers up the front of Ligur’s trench coat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hastur asked. “What we meant was we’re going to—”

“Bend me over the furniture?” Crowley suggested. He was pretty sure that martyring his reputation like this would have actually qualified him for sainthood, if the whole demon thing hadn’t made him categorically ineligible.

“That sounds about right, actually,” Hastur said, perplexed.

“Forget it,” Ligur interrupted, looking tired. “Let’s just go back to bed.”

“Back to bed it is then,” Crowley said, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders and giving Ligur an exaggerated wink.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Newt replace the phone and resume his staring with the air of one who is not paid enough for what he is forced to witness in the workplace.

Back upstairs, Crowley locked himself in the ensuite bathroom and heard Hastur and Ligur speculating that his Baronetcy had gone to his head. He tore off his chlorinated clothes and ran a second, scalding shower, as though enough hot water could burn away his embarrassment. And if he ended up mentally replaying his encounter with Aziraphale in a slow motion director’s cut with an alternate unrated ending sequence, well, what of it?

_Aziraphale_

Aziraphale had stopped only to ram his feet back into his waterlogged shoes and was still wrapped in a towel and holding his pile of wet clothes when the elevator arrived. Unfortunately, the doors slid open to reveal Michael and Uriel.

“Oh hello, what a pleasant surprise!” he said, stepping into the elevator with a squelch. “I didn’t expect to see you up at this hour.”

The Archangels looked thoroughly disarmed by Aziraphale’s cheer. 

“Gabriel lost his sunglasses, we were helping him look. Sleeping’s not too easy anyway,” Uriel said. “Erm, Aziraphale, what were you—?”

“Oh just a little midnight swim,” Aziraphale said. “Awfully refreshing, you know. Really just the thing.”

Michael’s face twitched, putting Aziraphale in mind of a flicking cat’s tail moments before the inevitable pounce. 

“The pool closes at 10:30, Aziraphale.”

He was about to stammer, about to reach for some arcane excuse, to invent a story about rescuing a drowning child. Then he remembered that he was trying to get demoted.

The elevator dinged. Doors opened.

“Does it now?” he asked, with the kind of airy unconcern that gazes vacantly over private balconies. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Stepping firmly into the seventh floor, Aziraphale reflected that he could, perhaps, get used to this.

Footnotes

69 “You know you can put stuff like this on the card,” Gabriel said. “We’ve got an expenditure code for espionage costs.”

“Oh that’s quite all right,” Aziraphale said. “Really, it was hardly an expense to me at all.”  [return to text ]

70 “Crowley, will you explain to me why there’s a charge under your name for a Deluxe King room at the Ritz London, a six-course dinner, and three bottles of champagne delivered to that room from Butler Service?” Beelzebub asked.

“Must be fraudulent charges,” Crowley said.”You know how easy it is to nick credit card numbers these days.”  [return to text ]

71 After the third convertible standing desk had come crashing down from Heaven in the middle of an infernal budget report, enough, the Prince of Hell decided, was enough.  [return to text ]

72 “Why don’t you pick where we go for lunch this time, dear?”

Crowley made a bored, put-upon sort of noise using only vowels.

“I just ate a week ago, I can’t even think about food. Anyway, if I choose something you’re going to spend the whole lunch trying to find everything that’s wrong with it.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. What would you be in the mood for if you could think about food?”

“Angel, stop interrogating me and let’s just go to that little French place with the cups of cider you’ve been angling for the whole time.”

“Well, if you insist.”  [return to text ]

73 Although more than one demon, upon hearing the phrase “Death of the Author,” had opined that surely the Author had it coming.  [return to text ]

74 This was true, although in Crowley’s case it was only true if you deleted your browsing history and put on Safe Search just for good measure.  [return to text ]

75 It did not count as victory, Aziraphale thought, if one merely made a suggestion that enabled the rapid and mutually enthusiastic transition to a different sort of clash between good and evil. Not even if the proximity of the two parties remained more or less unchanged and both activities resulted in a great deal of divine perspiration.  [return to text ]

76 As opposed to its normal state, which was lying on a dusty bookshop floor and waiting for Aziraphale to take pity on it and pick it up.  [return to text ]

77 Personally, he’d always found that whole routine a little much. First strike, then coil, that was his preferred method, though it lacked a certain mechanical logic. The truth was that Crowley’s movements as a snake made little more sense than as a humanoid demon.  [return to text ]

78 It had not. Crowley had cobbled together his made-up memory of clouds from various high-quality pillows and soft patches of sunny grass he had encountered in his long life. Heaven had by and large switched over to ergonomic desk chairs.  [return to text ]

79 If he had used the same exact phrase for several unacknowledged centuries of wrestling matches and river baths, Aziraphale always had the grace to refrain from noticing, and the selflessness to take him up on the offer regardless.  [return to text ]

80 Water had always obeyed when he was a demon, but in the Empyrean it greeted him with sullen indifference and, he thought, a bit of retributive smugness.  [return to text ]


	7. Obtuse Angels and Other Geometric Difficulties

_ Crowley _

Crowley’s alarm went off to “Sunday Morning” on Sunday morning ( _ watch out, the world really is behind you _ ) and he rose at 5am. After hunting around for his second-favorite sunglasses, he scrambled out of the bathtub. Carefully unlocking the door, he performed a kind of upright slither into the lounge, where he pried open the ottoman as instructed by one of the scribbled-upon cocktail napkins from the previous night. He extracted a green, slightly moth-eaten cable sweater and slipped it on. It smelled like Aziraphale.[81]

Crowley checked his phone for the location of the nearest 24-hour grocery store. “Alright, Aziraphale, for you, we’re doing this the old-fashioned way,” he murmured.

***

“Something’s wrong with Crowley,” Ligur was saying. “He’s acting all funny.”

Dagon was clicking incessantly on a retractable pen. “You mean, besides the usual?”

“I’m not talking about, you know,”— Hastur did a brief, unnervingly accurate impression of Crowley’s walk — “I’m talking really odd shit.”

Crowley chose that moment to pop out from behind an occluding whiteboard.

“Oh hello guys and guppies,” he said brightly, holding out a tin. “Want a biscuit? They’re chocolate.”

“I think I see what you’re saying,” Dagon said. “This is not normal.”

“Oh come on they’re just biscuits. Made them this morning. They’re not poisoned.” He shook the tin.

Hastur reached a hand in as though he fully expected it to emerge covered in savage biscuit bites. 

“What’s gotten into you, Crowley?” Ligur asked, glancing at the lumpy sweater. “Trying to suck up now that you’re going to be spending some time in the basement office?”

“Oh I just thought it’d be nice,” Crowley said, with as much innocence as a creature of corruption can muster.

Dagon retracted a biscuit. She looked up at Crowley’s dark lenses, then down to the biscuit again, and gave a cautious nibble.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Well, cheers, all of you, I’ll see you at lunch.”

As he left he could hear Dagon turn and whisper to Ligur.

“If this is what happens when a promotion goes to his head, we should find an excuse to promote him every other month. Have you  _ tasted this? _ ”

Crowley sighed, reflecting sadly that this was going to be more difficult than the instructions on the cocktail napkins indicated.

  
  


_ Aziraphale _

There was something called a “strategy breakfast” on Aziraphale’s Sunday agenda, which he had purposefully forgotten about.[82] Instead, he woke early and slipped out to have tea until he was sure that Michael was occupied in the fitness center, then returned to his room and indulged in a long, luxurious shower.[83]

Eleven o’clock found him sitting by the infinity pool in a silk shirt borrowed from Crowley. He had a half-empty strawberry margarita in one hand and an uncovered copy of  _ Abduction by the Demon Prince  _ in another.

“Aziraphale! There you are!” Gabriel waved and jogged over across the pool deck, in a sleeveless t-shirt that read WAKE PRAY SLAY.

“Oh, hello Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, resisting the urge to cover his paperback.

“We were looking for you at the strategy breakfast, you know.”

“Ah it, er, must have slipped my mind.”

To his consternation, Gabriel smiled.    


“Ah, I get it, you’re just too excited about the promotion. I understand! If I was going back to Heaven after a couple thousand years of  _ this  _ I’d be overjoyed too.”

“Erm, right, and I wanted to, you know, catch up on some reading,” Aziraphale added.

Gabriel squinted and read the title.

“ _ Abduction by the Demon Prince— _ hey that sounds really dramatic. Never really pegged you for a true crime kinda guy, honestly.”

“It’s not exactly true,” Aziraphale said, unsure of how to explain the genre of erotic paranormal romance to someone who had misinterpreted the cover image as anything nonfictional, rose petals and all.

“Oh sure, everything’s all fictionalized nowadays,” Gabriel said. “I was reading a great book like that just recently,  _ The Seven Virtues of High-Achieving Angels,  _ you should check that out, Samael really outdid himself.”

“Sure, of course,” Aziraphale said, taking a large sip of strawberry margarita.

“Well I gotta review some slides from Uriel but I’ll see you later today, kiddo. Oh, also, that’s a nice shirt, good look on you.”

Aziraphale heaved a deep sigh. He’d thought that he and Crowley had concocted an unstoppable force, but it seemed he’d underestimated the obstructive powers of an immovable mindset.

“Hello Aziraphale,” came a voice to his left.

“Oh, Crowley, this is going to be horribly difficult.” He turned around. “Goodness, I haven’t seen your hair that neat since the early Forties. I think it rather suits you.”

“Shut it,” Crowley said lazily. Casting an appreciative glance at Aziraphale, he added, “Though if we’re making suggestions, you should always leave that many buttons undone.”

“I feel practically indecent,” Aziraphale complained, reaching once again for an absent necktie.

“Erm, Aziraphale, what are you  _ reading? _ ”

Aziraphale set the book against his thigh so the front cover was obscured. 

“Oh, just some thoughtless novel I picked up at the airport,” he said. 

Crowley snatched the book away and his eyebrows cleared the top of his sunglasses in disbelief.

“ _ ‘Abduction by the Demon Prince’ _ ? Seriously? What, was ‘Taken to a Nice Dinner by the Demon Prince’ out at the library?”

Aziraphale grabbed the book back with a glare that could have curdled blood even if its owner was taking multiple anticoagulants. “That hardly sounds like it would make for compelling drama.”

“ _ ‘Compelling drama’ _ ? Angel, admit it, this is just porn for you posh types.”

“It’s  _ erotic paranormal suspense, _ there’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah? Read me a quotation.”

“Well, alright, the prose does leave a bit to be desired,” Aziraphale said waspishly. “The first one was better.” He immediately regretted that.

“ _ The first one? _ What was that,  _ ‘Sexual Escapades With the Serpent of Sin’ _ ?”

“It was, ah,  _ ‘Ravished in the Summoning Circle.’ _ ”

“And you’ve read how many of these?” Crowley’s eyebrows continued their climb towards his hairline.

“Well they’re all  _ different. _ I suppose they did sort of run out of ideas around  _ ‘Yearn in Hell,’  _ but that will happen around book twelve or so, and they really made a remarkable comeback with  _ ‘Worshipping the Devil.’ _ ”

Crowley looked as though he’d been bludgeoned with a crucifix. 

“Oh don’t give me that expression, I refuse to have aspersions cast upon me by someone who only reads takeout menus and Buzzfeed quizzes about what sort of carnivorous plant he is.”

“OK, fine, I won’t make fun of your less-than-literary inclinations. Any luck with Gabriel?”

Aziraphale set his margarita down and frowned.    


“No, actually, I don’t think he really picked up on anything.”

“Not so simple to get through to the thick skull of Heaven, eh? Easier for a camel to go trotting through the eye of a needle and all that.”

“Well have you had any luck with Hell?”

Crowley’s mouth twitched inauspiciously. “Not quite.”

“We’ll have to keep trying. You’d better go along, I’m sure you’ve got something to do.”

Crowley tilted his head.

“Oh fine, yes, I rather want to read this next part,” Aziraphale said, with as much regality as he could inflect through his embarrassment.

Crowley grinned evilly and departed.

***

The parties for Aziraphale and Crowley’s promotions were scheduled for the last night before the ascension to Heaven and descent to Hell. Intervening days had brought little to no demotional progress, despite a good deal of effort. Crowley had refrained from saying so many snide remarks that his tongue was swollen from biting them back.[84] Aziraphale, for his part, felt as though he’d been doing his best to live a wanton life of increasingly unchecked immorality and no one was noticing.[85]

Parties in Heaven, according to Aziraphale, may as well have been torments in Hell. They were dull and insincere, with small talk so miniscule it could dance happily on the head of any theologian’s pin. It didn’t help matters that, except when located on Earth, Heaven’s parties were never supplied with drinks to dull the edge of the experience, sofas to flop onto in exasperation, or friendly pets to socialize with when beings further up the Great Chain became intolerable.

Hell’s parties were variously described by Crowley as “shit,” “absolutely shit unless you’re fucked up, then they’re all right,” and “ _ so much fun _ but you have to be really, really off your face, Aziraphale, I mean if you’re not completely trolleyed you’re going to have a shit time.”

So it was with some trepidation and very low expectations that Aziraphale entered Ballroom A/B for the first ever combined party of Heaven and Hell.

Technically, Heaven had reserved the upper balcony, which was dotted with white-linened tables, and Hell had possession of the lower floor, which was a seething, strobe-lit mass of demons. However, the random distribution of the snacks and drinks meant that in practice there was considerable overlap between the host and the horde.

Aziraphale looked over the balcony at the crush of bodies beneath him, searching for Crowley. He had never been to Hell, but he imagined that the writhing of tortured souls must be somewhat akin to the sight before him. The thought made him feel sicker than he already felt.

A group of demons careered to one side of the floor, and Aziraphale spotted Crowley, who was dancing with all the sinuous grace of a malfunctioning photocopier, and none of its rhythm. He was wearing a headband with sequined devil horns on it and his face was coated in red glitter.[86]

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called when he’d raced down the stairs. “Crowley, what are you—?”

“Angel!” Crowley yelled, bounding over to him. In the chaos of the dancing demons and the angels pushing through to get to the snacks, they were unremarkable. “Look, ‘m a proper devil now. Got the whole— horns and everything, all regulation.” 

He leaned on Aziraphale’s shoulder, though it was hard to say whether it was from stumbling or flirtation. “There’s a tail too, you’ll like that—  _ hey, who stole my tail? _ ” he yelled at no one in particular.

Crowley, Aziraphale realized, was somewhere between drunk enough to enjoy Hell’s party and drunk enough to enjoy unanesthetized surgery.

“How much have you had to drink, dear?” Aziraphale asked, gripping Crowley’s free arm to prevent any sudden lurching.

“Ehh I don’t know, Aziraphale, it’s our lassst night on Earth— gonna be trapped in Hell for Satan knows how long— I’m shit at good-byes, you know that— you look beautiful in ssstrobe lights, anyone ever tell you?”

Something in that jumble of half-hissed words made Aziraphale’s heart clench.[87]

“Crowley, it’ll be all right, we’ll figure out a way through, somehow.”

Something collided with Aziraphale, and almost knocked the two of them over.

“Eric?” Crowley asked, craning his neck forward. “Ithuriel, is that you?”

“Caramel!”

Eric and Ithuriel, Aziraphale noticed with a jolt, were holding hands, and doing a poor job of concealing it.

“You need to be careful,” Aziraphale shout-whispered. “Don’t do anything foolish or— ”

“That’s what we came to warn you,” Eric said in a rush. “Crowley, if you can hear me under all that cheap tequila, Beelzebub and Gabriel have a bet going, they’re going to fire the first angel or demon that violates a serious policy. Watch out, OK?”

Aziraphale felt as though he’d been discorporated and reincorporated several dozen times in the space of a millisecond.

“How— how do you know that?”

“We overheard,” Ithuriel said, “from the inside of a supply cl— oh.” He cut off as Eric made a shushing sound.

“Wait,” said Crowley, who was attempting to stand and speak with something approaching clarity, “they’ll just fire them? Then what?”

Eric shrugged. “That’s all I know. We’re, uh, going to try and get some air.”

He and Ithuriel turned and started weaving their way through the pulsating crowd.

“Hang on,” Aziraphale said, and dragged Crowley forward towards them. “Look, you— you’ll want the supply closet in the easternmost corridor. It has the sturdiest lock and it seems, erm reliably soundproof.”

Eric’s eyes went wide within the rings of liner. Ithuriel laughed. 

“I knew there was something going on with you two, I knew it! Bye Aziraphale, bye Caramel Crowley!”

They disappeared into the mass of celestial bodies, quite a bit sweatier and clumsier than the planetary variety.

“Alright, everyone, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Gabriel’s voice echoed through an unseen loudspeaker.

The music faded and the strobes died away, replaced by a spotlight at the center of the floor where Gabriel and Beelzebub were standing. 

“Now in just a few hours we’re going to be packing up, and my fellow angels and I will be walking our way up that stairway to Paradise. And Hell, of course, will be driving back along the road that’s paved by good intentions.”

Beelzebub leaned over to Dagon. “Remind me to call Good Intentionzz tomorrow about our problem with the potholezz.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, “what if we just did something absolutely mad— what if we just snogged each other when they brought us up to do a speech, and that meant we were both fired?”

“I— well, I suppose the contract we signed to give up our powers is only applicable insofar as we ourselves are valid employees of Heaven and/or Hell, like it said in Section 8 Paragraph— ”   


“Would Aziraphale come forward please? Let’s give him a round of applause!” Gabriel mimed clapping with the microphone in hand.

“Crowley, get up here,” Beelzebub shouted. “Three cheers for Hell!”

Aziraphale and Crowley stepped into the circle of light at the center of the floor. 

“Well, Aziraphale, anything you want to say?” Gabriel offered.

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale said, and he put a hand to the back of Crowley’s head and bent him into a kiss, chaste and gentle.

“Oh sssscrew this,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s lips. “If this doesn’t work it better have been one Hell of a last moment of existence.” He wrapped both arms around Aziraphale’s neck and opened his mouth. Aziraphale returned the deeper kiss, leaning even further.

A glass dropped somewhere, and gasps echoed across the ballroom. It was hard to tell whether they were, on balance, angelic or demonic.

Gabriel hadn’t looked so shocked since Lucifer had introduced the idea that not everyone liked Gabriel. Beelzebub looked as though an extra-large piece of office furniture had just fallen from Heaven directly onto their head.

“Well this puts a lot of our past conversations into a different light,” Gabriel said. “Good thing Ithuriel won’t pull anything like this.”

“That’s the angel who tried to bite off Crowley’s finger,” Dagon whispered to Beelzebub. “I guess they’re into that.”

Beelzebub made a face. “I’m just glad we picked Eric to replace Crowley on Earth. Don’t see this happening with him.”

Michael, whose face was completely serene, tapped Uriel on the shoulder. 

“You owe me fifty pounds.”

“Can’t believe he’s cheating on the boa constrictor with an  _ angel, _ ” Ligur said, shaking his head.

“Figures,” said Hastur.

There was a sound like someone hurriedly filing papers into an especially notorious incident report folder, and two sets of wings unfurled.

“I think it might have worked.” Aziraphale was beaming.

“Hang on, let me sober up,” Crowley said. He made a pained expression and a cooler nearby found itself overflowing with decidedly unholy spirits.

“OK, yep, seems like it worked.”

“Perhaps we should take our leave now, get a head start?” Aziraphale offered his hand.

Crowley took it. “Yeah, something tells me we shouldn’t stick around for the severance checks.” 

Aziraphale gave a cheeky wave, Crowley blew a kiss, and they turned and ran from the hotel as fast as their legs and wings could carry them.

***

_ Epilogue _

The  _ Heaven of the Seas _ left Miami the next morning, amidst a forecast so favorable for a quick departure it could have been blessed by angels.

The ship’s last ticket was purchased by none other than The Amazing Mr. Fell, who had been booked to perform Spectacular Feats and Astonishing Magic through a process none of the crew could quite remember. One of those Feats involved an enormous snake that Mr. Fell, in his infinite wonder, could bestow with the powers of speech and understanding. Although the first mate was convinced that live reptiles were explicitly disallowed in the ship’s rules, a quick check revealed no such statute, and anyway Mr. Fell had offered extensive veterinary documentation, so no one objected to his keeping it safely inside his cabin.

The first night at sea, it became apparent that Mr. Fell was Amazing in more ways than one.

The  _ Heaven of the Seas  _ prided itself on its soundproof cabins. Crew members could rarely hear snoring at night from the hallway, and only the most muffled echoes of more recreational horizontality. It was truly notable, then, that from Mr. Fell’s cabin issued hours of rather incredible noise: alternately ecstatic cries, furniture protesting its brutal treatment, and something that sounded like (but surely was not) enormous wingbeats. 

At one point Mr. Fell’s room sent in a request to room service for a slice of devil’s food cake. A red-haired man in a bathrobe answered the door with a rapturous smile, took the cake, and shut the door again with astonishing rapidity. No one could remember him, but everyone seemed mysteriously disinclined to ask him for boarding documents. Any hopes that the arrival of the cake signalled the end of the other activities in the room were almost immediately dashed.

The crew could all agree they felt very sorry for Mr. Fell’s pet snake, who had undoubtedly witnessed acts no innocent creature should be forced to see.

Footnotes

81 That is to say that it smelled like musty upholstery, mistreated book pages, warm toffee, and something indefinable that made Crowley feel a bit drunk.  [return to text ]

82 He had skipped it because he was trying to encourage an impression of indolence and irresponsibility, but really, in his heart of hearts he considered it the responsibility of good people everywhere to drive “strategy breakfasts” from the world like the evil they were. According to Aziraphale, the only strategies that belonged in breakfast were those concerned with balancing sweet and savory dishes and cajoling a late-rising demon to join using the promise of bottomless Bellinis.  [return to text ]

83 If he also indulged in a long, luxurious remembrance of things recently past, well, the taste of that forbidden madeleine was quite delicious. And anyway, he might as well get into the spirit of defiance.  [return to text ]

84 Although perhaps some of the swelling could be attributed to the fact that Crowley was not the only one biting on Crowley’s tongue of late.  [return to text ]

85 He may have been overestimating his overt misbehavior. The more wanton parts of Aziraphale’s new life of unbridled sin had a tendency to occur behind closed supply closet doors.  [return to text ]

86Dagon had very much confused the man at Party City when she’d purchased these items.

“Early Halloween planning or bachelorette?” the cashier had asked casually.

Dagon looked mortally offended and eyed the cashier with extreme suspicion. “Sir, this is for a work function.”  [return to text ]

87”What do you think being in love is like?” Aziraphale asked Crowley.

They were lying on a rooftop on a warm night with no moon. Their conversation had drifted in and out like a cat napping in a migrating sunbeam.

““You’re the angel here,” Crowley said, after a rather long pause. “Seems like your department.”

“I don’t mean what _love_ is like, I mean what _being in love_ is like,” Aziraphale tossed a dried leaf into the air and watched it drift.

Crowley turned his lamplight eyes on Aziraphale. “You mean you don’t think you’d know, if you were in it?”

“Well it always sounds so overwhelming, in the descriptions.”

“I dunno, I bet it has its quiet moments, now and again. Change of pace.”

Aziraphale made a small movement that was not quite a nod, and they returned to the stars and the silence.  [return to text ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along for this ride! You can find me on tumblr at [theoldaquarian](https://theoldaquarian.tumblr.com/), and I am always happy to talk about Good Omens and how angels might decorate their ethereal cubes.
> 
> If you liked this fic, you might also enjoy [Come Adore on Bended Knee (and Other Ways to Make an Angel Rejoice)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858895/chapters/52169125).

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this chapter is taken from the only song about as swoony as Crowley is here, namely [Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by The Platters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfBboBz3yoc)
> 
> Ithuriel's appearance is based on [this cutie](https://www.wikiart.org/en/titian/angel-1522) from the [Averoldi Polyptych](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Averoldi_Polyptych).

**Works inspired by this one:**

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